Little Pieces of Time
by zrj1911
Summary: A photo is a reminder, of a time and a place. A moment. These moments shape a life, mold one's destiny. And Destiny, like Time, is a cruel mistress. Read these three destinies unfold, and share in their stories. Canon-compliant to begin, then Divergent.
1. October 3, 2001

**Wednesday, October 3, 2001**

 **Arcadia Bay Consolidated Elementary**

 **Max**

The day had a chill to it, just enough to punish a child for misplacing their outerwear. A little girl, Max, zipped up her grey jacket in response to a gust of wind. With her sneakers, she kicked at a small collection of leaves. Jeans protected her legs.

Small woodland creatures gathered food for the coming winter freeze. At recess, children played tag and swung joyfully. The leaves had changed color and were in the process of falling. And it was only this last fact that currently interested the young girl, fiddling with her disposable camera.

Max's parents had allowed her this only after much pleading and promises. _I'll be good! I'll never ask for anything again! I won't lose it, promise! Please please please…_

Max had a suspicion she had been going to receive the camera anyway, but her father was rather a tease about these things. With all the hours her parents worked, perhaps they thought letting Max have the best toys they could afford made up for the lack of family time. In any case, she had yet to actually take a photo since last Saturday. All charges were left unused in the small yellow camera she held.

"Ok Max, you can do it!" She offered herself a small pep-talk. After all, she really hadn't made any friends who might offer her encouragement. Oh, sure, she _spoke_ to the other kids, but stilted Kindergarten small-talk does not a friend make.

She peered through the small aperture at the top of the yellow brick in her hands. A rainbow of fallen leaves sat at the foot of the tree she stood before, and she centered the same in her view.

 _Click!_ Photo captured.

 _Bzt, bzt, bzt._ She rotated the wheel on the camera, readying the next charge.

"I can't wait to see it!" She almost squealed with delight; barely contained joy vastly disproportionate to the small task completed. This faded quickly when she remembered what her father had explained last weekend.

 _You'll only get to see the pictures after you've taken them all and I get them developed for you, Maxine. But I'm sure they'll be great, sweetie._

She wished she had one of those antique instant cameras, so she could see her work immediately. She promised herself to get one when she was older.

She smiled and turned to hunt for her next subject.

Martin Prescott, a distant, estranged relative to the 'famed' Sean Prescott heading the Prescott Estate, apparently had other ideas. He swiped the camera from Max.

"Hey!" And that was the extent of Max's current assertiveness.

"That looks cool, _Maxine,_ and you aren't, so it's mine now." He was a rather plump fellow, because even the fraction of Prescott Fortune he had access to was enough for excess. The extra weight and height scared Max.

"But, my dad, got that for me…" Max muttered, more to herself than to Martin. Tears threatened her eyes.

"Whatever, _Maxi_ – ooof!" Martin's voice was cut off by a fist to the gut.

"Leave her _alone,_ butthead!" This new girl was taller, and slim, but fierceness and anger rolled in her blue eyes. She ripped the yellow item back from Martin in his staggered state, then stared him down.

When Martin recovered, he glared back. "You don't know who you're messing with!" The Prescotts were like Rottweilers, except at least the dog could learn to love something other than itself.

Max was holding her breath, and this strawberry blonde ( _my savior!)_ didn't speak, but neither did she avert her gaze.

Martin, bored of the exchange, evidently, simply huffed once and left the girls. _He wasn't so tough after all, I guess._

The blonde took a few deep breaths, and Max let out the breath she had held. From behind her, Max regarded the confident stance of her impromptu protector with a childish awe. She wore a dark red windbreaker to keep out the cold, with faded jeans below, a hole in the left knee.

 _She's so cool!_ The awestruck kindergartener found the courage to speak, "Th-Thank you!" The other girl turned to face Max and gave a toothy smile. Max thought she might go blind by the brilliance, but retained the presence of mind to ask for the camera. "Can -can I…?" She held out her hands.

"Can what?" Came the reply. She looked down, to where Max was reaching. "Oh, this thing, yeah, for sure, all yours." Again with the smile, and Max felt like she was on a cloud.

With camera back in hand, Max secured it again in her 'camera bag.' It was a disused, compact purse with shoulder strap her mother had let her have. Her treasure fit quite nicely inside. Zipper closed, she met the blue stare of her savior.

"Uh, what's your name?" Max managed under the weight of tropical ocean eyes.

"I'm Chloe! You wanna be a pirate with me?" Chloe bounced on her feet a little as she spoke. The energy emitted was infectious.

Max hesitated. Normally, she would decline outright. She was more comfortable with her camera, on the edge of the playground, _watching_ the others rather than _participating_. Chloe seemed to sense this.

"I mean, you could use that camera whenever, you know? And I will be like, your bodyguard, or whatever. Yeah, yeah!" Max melted to the smiled once again, and sheepishly nodded her head. When Chloe offered her hand, Max took it immediately. It felt right. They walked off together.

"Oh, duh, hey!" They stopped abruptly. Max bumped into Chloe, and they both giggled at the sudden contact. "What's your name? Martin the Meanie" she spat the moniker out like she hated the taste, "called you, um, Maxi? Or Maxine?"

Max felt her cheeks flush a little at the attention. _Are we… friends? Is this what it's like?_

"…Max, never Maxine."

"Ok Max! Let's go claim a fort! I'll be Captain first, then you tomorrow, 'kay?"

Max nodded in agreement, then considered something. "Wait!" She retrieved the camera from its protective bag, and framed Chloe in the shot. Chloe, pleasantly surprised, gave a mischievous grin that highlighted her smooth features. _She's so pretty!_

Stowing the camera, their hands joined again, and they raced off to a wooden play-set to 'claim' it.

Max thought perhaps this was the beginning of a grand adventure, two pirates versus the world.

And, maybe, she wasn't far from the truth, after all.

* * *

 **Arcadia Bay Consolidated Elementary**

 **Chloe**

 _Ugh, where is the brat!_

Chloe was pissed on this day. And the reason she was pissed had a name.

Martin. Martin 'The Meanie' Prescott.

It started in Art class, when Martin stole her blue crayon. It was her favorite color, in a pack that named its colors after animals, and this one was 'Butterfly Blue.' It was the only crayon like it left in the whole art room ( _I know, I checked them all!)._ Martin said he needed to 'borrow' it. ( _I'll give it right back, he said. Liar._ ) When he was done with it, he got Chloe's attention, broke the crayon in half while she watched, and threw it in the big trash bin.

Then, as if the previous transgression hadn't filled his daily quota, in Gym class, as she readied a dodgeball's arc to crash into his head ( _I'm so glad it's free-play day today!_ She thought with a streak of malice), she heard him tell his friend ( _Daniel… Dan… Dirty Dan… Dumb Dan… I'll think of a good one later, ugh)_ that she had kissed him! Gross! Boys were gross, and Martin was the grossest of the lot.

 _You're gonna get it at recess, Meanie,_ she later thought from the 'Penalty Box.' The teacher, Mr. Stone, had seen her drill Martin from behind with the dodgeball. The Penalty Box was where he put unruly students who didn't play nice with others. Like Chloe. Not that she cared much, she didn't really have 'friends,' just people who didn't irk her as much as others.

"You have to stay here for the hour Chloe, I'm sorry." Mr. Stone had said, voice deep and relaxing, perfect for radio. Chloe thought the apology was odd, and reflected this thought in her confused facial expression to him. Mr. Stone shrugged, turned half away from her, and said through a smirk, "It _was_ a nice shot."

Seems even the adults were not impressed by the Prescott Legacy.

Recess came later, and Chloe sought her target. She hadn't thought through exactly how the confrontation would go, but planning was not really her area of expertise. _I act, don't overthink, like Daddy does. And he's my hero. So he must be right._

Chloe climbed to the top of a nearby play-set for a better view. She scanned, anticipating the round profile of Martin to stand out amongst their peers, especially as their 1st Grade class shared their recess time with the Kindergarteners.

 _Aha! Found you, butthead!_

She hopped down, and hurried off to do… whatever it was… she was gonna do.

 _Call him a butthead?_

 _Eh, good start._

He was with another girl, much smaller than either of the First Graders. She slowed her approach, curious as to what interaction was happening.

"…you aren't, so it's mine now." He held some sort of yellow rectangle in his hands, and the little girl looked positively crushed.

A weak voice escaped from the freckled brunette ( _I love those freckles! Why don't I have freckles…? Focus, Chloe.),_ "But, my dad, got that for me…"

He had stolen it. Of course. Chloe felt the anger rise within her. Her eyes hardened, her fists clenched, and her breath shortened. Her glare tightened on Martin. She walked forward to close the distance.

"Whatever, Maxi – ooof!" He didn't finish his sentence before Chloe drove her fist into his stomach. She felt better already, even though her knuckles began to hurt. She hadn't hit anybody like that before. She snatched the object back before Martin got his bearings. _It's a camera? That's pretty cool, I guess._

"Leave her _alone,_ butthead!" _Yes! Butthead name-call perfectly delivered!_ Chloe felt proud, doubly so since she was helping another girl, now behind her as she rounded on Martin, who glared at her, standing up.

"You don't know who you're messing with!" _Always more bark than bite, Prescott._

True to form, Martin huffed and left without another word. Chloe hoped the Price Death Glare she was levying on him would make him pee his pants, or something equally embarrassing.

With Martin gone, Chloe closed her eyes and focused on her inhales and exhales. She was calmer with him gone, and almost forgot about the girl she saved until she heard "Th-Thank you!" from behind her. She turned to face the freckled girl, and flashed her best smile. She thought over the day; this might be her first genuine smile of the crap day she's had. Her reverie was interrupted by the girl, asking her something.

"Can –can I?" She held her hands toward Chloe. Her eyes, a darker, more oceanic blue than her own. They were damp, as if she had been close to crying.

"Can what?" She would have raised her hands in confusion, but she was holding… _oh, duh._ "Oh, this thing, yeah, for sure, all yours." She smiled at the brunette again, and she visibly brightened at the effort.

Chloe watched as her new acquaintance ( _maybe she'll be my friend? I totally just saved her, we're like bonded for life)_ stowed her disposable camera in a shoulder bag. Their eyes met briefly, until the freckled one darted her eyes away. Still, she asked Chloe "Uh, what's your name?"

"I'm Chloe! Do you wanna be a pirate with me?" Chloe bounced a little, eager in her spontaneity. She hadn't asked anyone to be a pirate with her yet, that was hers alone till today. But there was a hesitation in the other girl, and Chloe thought maybe she was too forward.

"I mean, you could use that camera whenever, you know? And I will be like, your bodyguard or whatever. Yeah, yeah!" Chloe convinced herself first, then smiled and checked for the shy one's reaction. She got a nod and sheepish smile in response. _Yay!_ Chloe offered her hand, and it was taken immediately, no hesitation this time. It felt right. They started to walk off together.

"Oh, duh, hey!" She stopped on a dime, but her new friend didn't, and they lightly collided. They both giggled at this. "What's your name? Martin the Meanie," she felt like even his name was painful, "called you, um, Maxi? Or Maxine?"

Maxine blushed. "…Max, never Maxine."

 _Oh, ok._ "Ok Max! Let's go claim a fort! I'll be Captain first, then you tomorrow, 'kay?"

She turned to go, but heard "Wait!" from Max, and turned back. The photographer-to-be readied her in her sights, so Chloe posed with her best 'Pirate Trouble' grin.

Max smiled briefly, but turned serious when operating her camera, which she stashed away when finished in her bag. _She's actually extra cute when she's all serious._

Hands joined again, they ran off to conquer and pillage, _Pirate Partners in Crime_!

Chloe thought they might be partners forever.

And, maybe, in a way she was right all along.

* * *

 **Prescott Family Property, Arcadia Bay Outskirts**

 **Nathan**

'He hates you, Nathan.'

 _He does not! He's my Dad._

'He hates you! You are a terrible son.'

Oh, he hates you. You'll be lucky to live past today.

 _No! No! Stop it, just stop, please!_

You are weak. Nothing like him.

Nathan sat in his father's truck, and waited for him to finish his business in the Barn. Often, he would have to accompany his father to this place after Nathan was done with his private tutoring. He pulled at the collar of his sailor outfit. He wasn't even sure why he had to wear it, just that his grandfather had served in the Navy.

 _Father pays for my private tutoring! He wouldn't do that if he didn't love me!_

'He thinks you are dumb. You are dumb.'

How can you be a good son when you are this pathetic?

Nathan was never allowed inside, not even a peek. He was not allowed to even set foot outside the vehicle, lest he draw the wrath of his father. And he didn't wish to get the switch again. He asked, once, what was inside. His father had said, with a rare smile, "something marvelous, my son."

'You'll never see inside, Nathan.'

 _I will! He says I can when I'm older, and prove myself._

The only thing you can prove is your inferiority, Nathan.

 _STOP!_

Nathan clutched his head, as if in pain. And he was in pain. He couldn't explain it, and his Other Voice was right: if he told his father about the Others, he would seem weak, and maybe the first Other would be right then too, and he'd never see inside the Barn. He was startled by his father opening the driver's door.

"You alright, son." It seemed a question of concern, yet sounded more a statement, and delivered with the warmth of a December snow.

"Yeah, yeah, Dad, I'm ok." Nathan lied. He was not ok.

Can't even tell your own father about your problems. Tch.

 _You know I'd seem weaker for it._

'Can't be weaker than the weakest, Nathan, and that's where we are.'

Mr. Prescott gave a noncommittal grunt in response. The truck, recently repainted in a silver color ( _Dad sure liked to repaint the truck, didn't he?),_ roared out of the drive and made its way home, carrying both the Prescott King and his heir.

They arrived a little less than an hour later, and Mrs. Prescott was outside to greet them. She had impeccable timing, as always.

"How are my favorite two men today?" Mrs. Prescott smiled at the pair as they exited the truck, and Nathan made to run to his mother, full of warmth like the summer sun.

As he picked up speed, however, his father called out. "Nathan! Walk, like a proper gentleman, compose yourself." There wasn't _anger,_ per se, just _disappointment._

Again, you fuck up, Nathan.

 _I just wanted my mom…_

'Because she coddles you, Nathan.'

"Sean, please. Just because _you_ never run to me anymore doesn't mean _he_ can't." Nathan had walked the rest of the distance to his mother. With tears beginning, he hugged his mother, burying his face in her floral pattern sundress. She took her wide brimmed hat off her own head and placed it on Nathan's, helping obstruct the starting puffiness from Sean's prying eyes.

"That's enough, Diana. Nathan knows what he trains his life for, as do you." Mr. Prescott's wide build contrasted wildly with his wife's slender frame. Sean wore a brown colored business suit, no button out of order. He owned one such suit for every day of the week.

Diana sighed, reached close to Sean and pretended to straighten his tie (it was never not straight, Sean was perfectly sure). "I know, Sean. But he is still just a child, even as prestigious as his position might be."

"Hmmph," was all Nathan's father had to say.

Do you feel the disapproval, Nathan?

 _No, f-fu-fuck you! I'm doing my best, every day!_

'Swearing won't help us not be disappointing, Nathan.'

 _Argh!_

Sean set his right hand on Nathan's shoulder, and returned the hat to Diana with the other. If he noticed the red eyes of his son, he didn't show concern.

"I'm not upset, Nathan. Please ready yourself for dinner, now." That same monotone, betraying no inner thoughts or feelings.

Nathan squeaked out "Yes, sir," before starting up the white steps to their mansion. His mother called before he got very far, however.

"Wait! Before you two go, I want a picture." She twirled and retrieved her handbag from under the lawn chair she had been lounging in. From it she produced an instant camera.

 _Mother likes the 'metro feel' of the instant camera. Me too._

It's 'retro,' not 'metro.'

 _Oh, right._

You are a failure.

'Indeed. You'll never make it.'

 _I made a simple mistake! It's not that big…_

Failure, Nathan.

"You can't be serious, Diana."

"I _am,_ and you'll do this for me, or I won't do anything for _you_ , later." She winked.

Sean grunted again. "You _will_ regardless," he muttered, and Diana's face darkened, if only briefly. Nathan was confused about the exchange, but was anxious to be dismissed. He felt bad enough about today already.

Sean, knowing his wife wouldn't want a personal photo with his full business attire, and being ready for a shower after his work at the Barn, removed his tie, undid his dress jacket buttons, and loosened his cuffs. Diana, happy with said development, hummed lightly, and situated herself in front of her 'men.'

"Sit on the steps, dears." They did. Sean flinched when Nathan scooted closer to him.

"Ok!" Diana seemed blissful, framing the pair in the aperture. Nathan would remember this moment as the one where he decided to take up photography; if his beloved mother could be so happy with it, perhaps he could too.

"Smile!" Came the command.

Father spoke to son from the corner of his mouth, the other corner slightly upturned in an attempt at a smile. "Don't fuck this up, son."

Nathan cried. The flash went off.

Weak.

'Sad.'

 _Help me._

Nathan had a thought that being a Prescott meant he would never be free.

And, maybe, just this once the Others were right all along.

Yes.

'Yes.'


	2. April 19, 2008

**Saturday, April 19, 2008**

 **Price Residence, Arcadia Bay**

 **Chloe**

Chloe stared at the razor in her hand.

Just stared, like she didn't really know what to do with it. Like the razor had the answers to the questions swirling in her head, _will this help,_ and _how much does it hurt,_ and _why me._

She sighed, set the razor down. Not out of reach. Just out of hand.

Joyce was out, a double shift at the Two Whales. Without William's income, finances were much tighter. Chloe wondered without much interest if her mother could actually make ends meet all on her own.

She picked the razor back up. _I just don't care, I don't, I won't. Mom is… It's_ her _fault anyway._ Because Joyce had called for that ride home from work. Because Joyce had decided to get groceries that day. And because it was easier to blame her mother than simply accept that life was really a series of shit stains viewed through piss tainted blindfolds.

Chloe even surprised herself with the only half coherent content of that last thought. But she was angry, and Angry Chloe didn't need to make perfect sense.

Pressure on the thin blade held to her wrist. Skin still intact.

Chloe and Joyce had talked about grief, after… after Dad left. There were four, five stages? _Fuck, like I really paid any attention to that shit. Dad's dead and I get a psych lesson._ Anger was first, or second maybe, and Chloe had no intention of moving to the next. The world could burn for the heat of the rage she held within her.

She released her pressure on the razor. No blood yet.

 _Just… Drop a bomb on this fucking town, level the place._ The blonde had no reservations about destroying every building, reducing brick and stone to pieces and dust. And briefly, she felt a guilt, for wishing to take everything away from everyone else, but her anger was stronger than the guilt, because she had lost everything first, and why would one person need to sacrifice themselves for everyone else?

The pressure resumed. Pale skin strained from the effort, but didn't give in.

The sole current occupant of the Price household tried to list the reasons, tried to make a pros/cons chart in her head of the feasibility of the cut. But perhaps 'rational' wasn't the best word to describe her present state of mind. _It'll hurt, it'll hurt, maybe I'll forget for a while. Anything but the emptiness._

There was one other person who could have helped with this, this inadequate feeling of _survival_ when one was young enough to be _living_ instead. But she left, yesterday, shut the door behind herself at precisely 3:23PM. Anger swelled again in the youngest Price's bosom. Another abandonment, another loss, another lie of 'I'll never leave you, Chloe.'

The steel tip of the box cutter in Chloe's left hand produces a drop of crimson from the miniscule hole torn into her opposite wrist.

The razor is flung away from the girl, lost in the open closet.

 _Oh my god, oh my god, I almost, I, I…_ Words and sentences don't form easily in her head, replaced by mushy _feelings_ that pull and rip in every direction until she collapses. She falls on the hardwood floor, gasping, unable to breathe. Her eyes are shut tight, too tight, and she strains to tighten them more anyway.

She wanted to _feel,_ to escape the sense of a hole in her heart. A dark place, a black hole, where everything goes in and nothing come out. And perhaps she was successful in that quest, because now she felt the weight of her loss, and the intensity of the pain, and on the heat of her own anger Chloe had burned herself.

Eventually, air did find its way to her lungs, through to her blood, only a drop of which had been lost. And as the dull maroon in her vision faded to the blur of tears, the would-be cutter decided that perhaps the dull, safe emptiness was preferable to the all-consuming, threatening waves of emotion.

A single tissue from her blue dresser was adequate to dry the red liquid from her wrist; several more were required for the salt water and snot that plagued her puffy face. The tissues joined the pile of their brethren that hid her waste basket. A white paper testament to her sorrow.

 _No more_ , she promised herself, and lied back on her bed.

And she had expected a wash of relief over her prone form, but none came. _Just another feeling to suppress,_ she thinks. A glance at the clock, _almost midnight, fuck._ But she didn't have anything to do tomorrow, because her best friend abandoned her yesterday, and _how lame is a single pirate._

The pain started again, her bruised mind inundated with images of freckles and brown hair in a ponytail and the sound of soft rolling giggles and the way she exclaimed 'Chloe!' with a blush when she told a dirty joke she learned from that boy Justin at school and _stop stop stop stop!_

So the crewless Captain stared at her ceiling. Just stared. Resolutely; intently. It wasn't interesting, and she liked that. She could lose herself in the white. Not think. Exist, but not feel. She liked that.

This was the cold scene Joyce arrived to see, after closing the diner for the night and catching the last bus home. If she wasn't acutely aware of the ordeal her daughter was enduring, she might have suspected drugs for the thousand yard stare Chloe aimed to the sky. But she did know better, and at least her child wasn't crying tonight, so she planted a kiss on a ruffled blonde head, whispered an "I love you, darlin'," and retired to deal with her own demons. Her own guilt.

And, as if Chloe had read her remaining parent's mind, she conjured a memory of that Justin boy and his offer of marijuana from early last month. She thought maybe drugs could help her, after all.

And they did in a way, but they also damned her, and it was too late then to know the difference.

* * *

 **Prescott Family Property, Arcadia Bay Outskirts**

 **Nathan**

'Why are you here, Nathan?'

 _Because Father says I'm ready for my first steps._

You're still too weak to be his protégé, you know.

 _That's a lie. I am the Prince._

As if that title had real meaning, child.

 _Need I remind you what happened to the last person to enrage me, maggot?_

…You broke him.

 _Yes._

'Are you threatening yourself, Nathan? That's not…'

The Others were cut off by the sound of Father's voice, calling to Nathan from the door of the Barn. "Nathan! Approach!" The young Prescott grabbed his camera and exited the truck swiftly.

This was the very first time Nathan was allowed to enter the Barn. If he had a dollar for every time he fantasized about this moment, the Prescott Fortune would have doubled. He hurried to his father; eager to please, eager to learn.

The secret of the Barn was Father's alone. Not his sister, Kristen, nor Mother knew what was inside. "A secret for the male heritage," his mom had offered, supposedly the extent of her knowledge, "from Sean's father to him, and from him to you, son."

Nathan knew it was _work,_ with how Father was so tired after sessions at the Barn. Nathan knew the cadence of events that followed such sessions through observation and repetition: Father comes home, kisses Mother, eats dinner saved for him, showers, retires to his den ( _powerful men have dens,_ Nathan thinks), falls asleep in his chair. Almost as if it were a burden, a weight to be carried, for the good of all. Maybe a burden they could share, one day, Father and Son.

Nathan stood before his father, at once excited and terrified.

"Son," the elder started, "this is your first glimpse into the legacy of the Prescotts. Do not think for a moment you know what you are stepping into. I will guide you into this, this Room, this life, but you must _do_ as I _say,_ and I will brook no argument. Do you understand, Son?" His tone was unyielding, but not yet harsh; an ocean of resistance, but no current to drown a swimmer.

"Yes, Father."

"Good," the man says, and offers a rare, genuine smile. The boy smiles in kind. "Come. Your first steps start now." He opened the door, just enough to allow a body through, and ushers his child inside.

Confusion hits Nathan first, not for what he sees but rather for what he _doesn't_ see. There's some hay, an old tractor, some kind of… motor?

He is testing you. There must be more. Demand answers!

'He is testing you. There must be more. Give patience.'

 _I am no passive fool. I will ask, like a gentleman, like Father._

"Father, what is this?" Neutral tone, no waver in the voice.

"The façade," replies Nathan's future teacher, and he strides to the northwest corner of the Barn. Nathan follows, Nathan always follows. Sean pushes aside some new straw, uncovering a wooden hatch. There is a new padlock, keyed. Sean produces the key from his pocket, and the hatch opens to reveal an old, but solid set of wooden stairs. A cellar of some sort.

"And this," continues the Teacher, "is our legacy." He descends, followed by his Student. "You are a child of the new age, Nathan. You are a photographer." He stops briefly to procure another key for a locked door, built of newer wood than the hatch above them. "You get that from your mother. I prefer sketches, but I won't hold that against you. My father preferred paints in his day. We all have our personal… tastes."

The room they enter into is damp, with an earthen feel. There are modern touches, lights, drywall and hardwood floors, and the place is clean, but not sterile. There sits a desk in one corner, heavy oak construction. Beside it, a cabinet of sorts, tall as a bookcase, also oak, currently closed. Along the far wall is what looks like a small studio. A white sheet provides an unblemished backdrop, portable work lamps situated to illuminate the area well, or in varied ways. A solitary chair sits in the harsh white light. Another desk, smaller, prefabricated, is placed in front of the Studio area. Drawing supplies and a heavy paper stack neatly grace its surface. A few smaller cabinets, made with lighter pine, line the walls, contents hidden from prying eyes. Water and food fill shelves built into the wall closest to the entrance. All in all, Nathan is let down, but still intrigued. He wants to know the secrets here, but had expected more 'Bat-Cave' than 'Dingy Cave.'

Sean is at ease, perhaps more so than Nathan has ever seen. He casually makes his way to the drawing desk, and lovingly places his hand on its surface. "I have spent many hours here, Nathan. As will you, in time. You have your camera. Yes?" The teenager nods. "Good. You will frame me in a single portrait shot today."

Nathan almost began to protest, and the Others spoke up again.

One shot? Unacceptable! Enforce your will, Nathan.

'Only one shot. He must not trust you after all, Nathan.'

 _I…it's_ fine. _We're moving slow. That's… fine._

Is it fine? Force will get you farther than rationalization.

'Just give up. This is fruitless.'

 _Gah, shut up! I can't think!_

Sean had already composed himself for his photo. "Nathan, what is the problem?" There, the familiar tension and disapproval in his voice had returned.

"Father, I…" Nathan struggled to retain the thin veneer of calm, the fleeting illusion of stability and control he had assumed since he exited his father's truck (repainted a forest green just this month) minutes prior. His face contorted, the Others vying for control of his speech and emotions. "I don't need training wheels! Why do we start all this with, with one shitty photo –"

"Nathan…" A warning. The suited man stood. Walked forward.

The boy stopped, for a moment, and he knew he had fucked up, and he lost it.

"No! I'm thirteen, Father. You've been _preparing_ me for this since I was fucking six years old, and I'm goddamn _tired_ of waiting for –"

A backhand strike cut off Nathan's words. It hit him so hard he forgot he was speaking at all. He tumbled into the lowest shelf of food storage, knocking some canned beans to the wood floor with a _thump._

The anger in Sean's next words was a tangible thing, a physical force that pushed Nathan away from the source. "You will not _lecture_ me, you ungrateful sissy. I have the _power_ here, you little cunt, and you _will_ not _forget_ that again."

Nathan stood slowly, and did not meet his father's gaze.

We are still weak, Nathan.

'Still weak, Nathan.'

… _I know._

As the blood pooled below his skin, bruise forming, Nathan simply waited. Waited for instruction, for a lecture, for another strike, anything. His eyes, having lost a little sharpness of focus from the impact, were still downcast when he heard his idol (because he still idolized the man, no matter how much Nathan didn't live up to his expectations) speak again, the calm restored.

"One picture, Nathan. Do this, and pray to whatever God will hear you that I forgive your indiscretion here."

"…Yes sir."

Sean sat back down, face a mask, and posture rivaling that of statues. Nathan readied his camera, an expensive digital replica of the kind a certain Mark Jefferson used in his latest shoot in Seattle. Their styles were similar, though Nathan had much less claim to a style than Jefferson did; decades less of a claim to style, in fact.

 _Click, Flash._

The image appeared instantaneously on the display screen.

With the light, the flash was unnecessary. The frame was tilted, subject askew. There had been no support from trembling hands and fragile resolve. Nathan could already see his failure before Father had said a word.

"You need practice." Mercifully, Sean stopped there in his critique. He did know his limitations, after all. "Though perhaps I am not the one to offer photography advice. I will procure you a tutor, in time." A beat of silence, as he contemplated this. "We are done here. We will return another time."

Nathan knew better than to ask questions, but his heart soared.

 _A tutor? More time here, with Father?_

Even the Others were happy with this.

He will strengthen us.

'A tutor will perfect our talent.'

And as they left, in a dark, verdant pick-up, Nathan thought perhaps this Room, dark and secret, might be his salvation, from his father and his insecurities, once he mastered it.

And it was, in a way, but the Room also damned him, and it was too late then to know the difference.

* * *

 **Caulfield Residence, Seattle Suburbia**

 **Max**

An Irish proverb goes as such: Better the trouble that follows death, than the trouble that follows shame.

But if Max believed that, she'd be dead already.

In the back seat of the family car (the 'Max-mobile,' as Chloe christened it) the short brunette sat mute. They had pulled into the drive of their new home a just a minute prior, and the trio that comprised the Caulfield family still sat in the metallic blue sedan. The rising sun cast long shadows and golden hues over the world.

Vanessa, the mother, also brunette but of a long and wavy sort, was blessed with the gift of gab from an early age ( _glad I didn't inherit that trait from you, Mom),_ and indeed she had talked most of the way from the Bay to Seattle. This chattiness generally had served her well; she was never 'the popular one' but never had a dearth of friends to call upon, and her career as an Executive Assistant ( _never Secretary, thank you very much_ ) depended on her ability to chat up the right people and never have the wrong thing to say to a potential client. So, from Oregon to Washington, her words filled the air.

Ryan, the father, and ever the dutiful husband, had listened and nodded to her speech. He was the quiet one, a man of few words and deep thoughts. Max once thought that maybe he could have made a great lumberjack ( _and he sure has the beard to complete the look, too)_ , with his stocky build, gentle yet powerful hands, and penchant for hard work. He still was responsible for the felling of trees, in a way, but rather as an avid consumer of paper for his various Sales Reports and Projection Timetables and whatever else boring things were necessarily tracked by Ryan's team.

But Ryan had been promoted, transferred to Seattle, with a bigger team and a fancier title and _of course I'll take the job_ , Max's inner voice mimicked, _we can pack up our whole lives in just a week!_ There was bitterness here, even before the reality of it all had truly set in yet. _Max will be stoked to leave her home! It's not like her best friend just lost her dad, or anything._

Just over two weeks ago now, Max had stood with Chloe as William took his last photo with his instant camera. How innocent they had been, making pancakes, or whatever, and laughing. _Max is never leaving me,_ the taller girl had said. _That makes all of us,_ the doomed man had replied. And now they were all liars.

Yesterday, they had left their Arcadia Bay home for the last time. Ryan had a half day at his now-former office, finishing things up for a smooth transfer. They made their rounds, saying goodbye to all the people they were leaving behind, and the Price household was last. Chloe said very little, and Max the same, and with wetness on their cheeks they made promises they both intended to keep, steady and sturdy as iron (which might bend but can be mended when distorted).

Yet Fate had thought these promises more like porcelain, however; beautiful and soothing, but easily broken and impossible to repair.

They stayed at a hotel overnight, so as to get a fresh, whole day with which to start their new lives as Seattleites.

In the present, Vanessa opened her door first, and this spurred her husband to follow. Max didn't, not yet. She looked up at the house, newly built, with its yellow siding and white trim. She tried to be positive, as maintaining optimism was generally the one skill Max credited to herself consistently, but she couldn't help but feel that this new place, not home, not yet ( _not ever?)_ , was a gilded cage. The cheese placed in the spring trap; the tainted promised land beyond the desert.

The moving truck had already arrived, and Vanessa wasted no time in directing the three bulky moving men (and Ryan, if only to prove his gym membership was worth keeping in the new city). Max was the only Caulfield to not have seen the house before today. And to say she wasn't _excited_ to see the new house would be a lie. But the excitement was tempered by the shame. Because Max didn't quite feel like she had moved into a new home but rather felt she had moved _away_ from the old one.

 _It's just semantics, Max. This is… it's good. Mom, Dad, they're happy. I should be too._

Slipping earbuds into her ears, and slipping her body out of the car, the tween tried to lose her thoughts in the mechanics of moving boxes and unpacking, in the strain of underdeveloped muscles, and the feel of sweat on her pale skin. It almost worked.

In the evening, the house was more or less fully furnished and in order. Because Vanessa and Ryan were nothing if not efficient. There were still small trinkets to be liberated from their cardboard prisons, and there were items to be purchased to complete some rooms, and _I can't believe they broke the dining room table, heh!_ So, they had pizza delivered and ate it on the coffee table, sitting cross-legged on the new burgundy carpet of the living room.

A cell phone with a sliding keyboard sat on that same coffee table. It remained silent. Its owner wished it would _chirp, chirp_ and the face of a certain pirate might grace its small screen. Because Max had never been the _initiator,_ not from the first day they claimed their first fort on that playground seven years past.

There was no ring, no sound at all from the device. The silence was deafening. With her mother and father cuddled together on the couch, watching some detective show or another and planning sight-seeing tours during the commercials, the only child of their union crept sullenly upstairs to her new room. _My new room._ The thought felt odd. Wrong, somehow.

And it was at this moment, as she opened her _new_ door in a _new_ house in a _new_ city with _new_ people, that the reality of her _new_ life fell upon her as a hammer falls to an anvil. Blue eyes conjured salt water, streams carving silent paths down her cheeks. The real impact of the imaginary force knocked Max to her hands and knees.

And there was no reason to cry, she thought, because Seattle is _better_ than Arcadia Bay. A better school system with more funding for Art programs. A bigger house, in a safer neighborhood. More sights to see, more experiences to be had. More pictures to be taken, and more people to maybe appreciate them.

But, there was less. There was no Chloe. No Price. _Seattle is Price-less._

At this, the brunette chuckled to herself at the terrible pun, even through and despite the tears burning her freckles, because _that's totally a Chloe-pun,_ and _even if we're miles apart, you'll always be in my heart, Che._

At the unexpected rhyme, Max made to open her phone and text it to her best friend, mostly for the expected _god maximus u r so mushy_ text in response. A faint but genuine smile graced barely parted lips for the first time that day.

The smile faded as thumbs refused to type.

 _What if she doesn't like it, what if she's still angry with me? Does she want me to text her? Should I apologize, even though I didn't want to move away in the first place?_

Insecurity and self-doubt snowballed until an avalanche of inaction and indecision arrested the small framed girl.

 _I mean, what is she up to today, anyway? Is she still crying over her dad? Did she and Joyce talk at all? She was in so much pain, and I just left, do I even deserve to call her?_

Max realized, hazily, that she still laid on the floor. With unhurried movements, she carried leaden limbs to her bed and flopped down upon it.

She would miss Arcadia Bay. Her Pirate most of all, of course, but also the Two Whales Diner ( _Belgian waffles,_ _mmm_ ), Joyce, the lighthouse, the small town air, countless stars in the night sky. All this was gone now. Miles of road that could be lightyears of space for all Max's ability to cross it.

Desperate for hope, but settling for distraction, pained thoughts turned to pensive deliberation on photography. Max always had a way of turning into herself to escape the world; her camera was an extension of this, offering a buffer between the _world_ captured in the photo, through a lens, and _her_. Allowing her to experience and exist without fully exposing her fragile being to the vicissitudes of _outside._ Because if a photo existed of thing, then that thing was out _there,_ separate from the young photographer. But she recognized the danger in this, too: that she might slip into really _believing_ herself outside of time and space, only to touch the world through photographs.

The selfies, oft mocked, were important for that reason. A reminder that while anything in a photo is _out there,_ so too can Max be photographed, and thus Max is _out there_ as well.

Yes, Max thought photography to be her lifeline. A tether, an anchor to the world she so often has to escape from and shut out.

And it was, in a way, but it also damned her, and it was too late then to know the difference.


	3. July 4, 2011

**Monday, July 4, 2011**

 **Arcadia Bay Beach**

 **Nathan**

The sun had just set, the last vestiges of its light fading into shadows. It had been quite a sight, rather beautiful indeed, and if any of the unsupervised minors currently gathered on the dark sands of Arcadia Bay's beach had been sober, they may have noticed. Perhaps even a photo would have been taken.

As it stood, however, it seemed there was not a sober member amongst the party-goers. The major distinction during tonight's revelries was the preferred substance used for, as opposed to the level of, intoxication. Weed was popular, accessible and without stigma. Alcohol ranked a close second, however, because the gas station just off the main highway north of town was staffed by a certain Jack Kirkman on Saturday nights, and Jack did not check for identification.

So it was that the majority of rebellious teenagers drank and smoked themselves into forgetting their worries (and some poor soul's pants, lost to the tide, later in the night). But there was a particular subsection that desired a little more edge to their Independence Day celebration. These adventurous souls gathered around a sixteen year old boy who had a streak of providing these more potent party favors.

Nathan liked the control he had over this clique. He was their supplier, their provider, their savior. _I have the power here,_ he thought, _and I haven't even broken any of them yet._

Money could not buy happiness, but it did help the unstable young man to acquire some coke for tonight's festivities, and _isn't that kinda the same thing?_ The Others might have disagreed with this assessment, because at some point the voices in the young Prescott's head had become more grounded than Nathan, but the 'pre-game' line of powder currently swimming in their collective bloodstream was dulling the senses enough to silence them.

In fact, this silencing effect was the most important (and most addictive) part of the drug scene to Nathan. Discovered by accident, really, over two years ago now. As long as Nathan was high, he could count on the Others to _fuck right the fuck off,_ and leave him alone. But tolerance was a bitch, and slowly the marijuana lost effectiveness.

There were stronger drugs.

Like cocaine. Frank came through, like he always did. _He's a damn good dealer, and he's got good shit. Glad we met last month._ Krista and James had already taken their lines of powder, noses tingling and burning, so Nathan prepped another two, quickly taken by Vance and Cathy. Finally, another line for himself.

They lay on beach blankets spread on the sand, and waited for the coming light show. It was never a lot, Arcadia City Council didn't quite rake in the taxes for extravagant firework projects, but nevertheless practically every Bay resident would turn their gaze skyward, over the waters, tonight.

Sharp blue eyes, almost turquoise, began to lose focus as they travelled over the group of stoners assembled. His little clove of jittery coke users found it hard to sit still. _Frank said we might get excited._ The more mellow druggies were frolicking just beyond them, smoke trails drifting to the heavens. Enough to get the birds tipsy.

Nathan felt his thoughts start to speed up to match the furious rhythm of his heart. _Whoah this is cool so weird I took more than I did earlier should I have done two lines the air is so good I need to move!_ He shot to his feet. A brief thought about the purity of the coke he scored skittered past his mind. He didn't stop, couldn't stop, to entertain the idea further. He heard a noise.

"Rach, hey, wait up!"

"Just stay back there, 'kay? You know Randy doesn't like you, and I want some herb tonight, after everything."

"I _know,_ Rachel, but last time…"

"He still _owes_ me for last time, Chloe."

Nathan found himself staring at the two girls. He wasn't sure when he walked over, or even if he had moved. Maybe they moved to him? _But they want this Randy guy. I'm not Randy. Wait, am I Randy?_

"Am I Randy?" His thoughts vocalized themselves; his lips had intentions separate from his brain.

The prettier girl ( _she could be a model! My model…)_ dragged her eyes up and down his frame. Nathan returned the gesture. She wore a long sleeve red flannel shirt, all buttoned up to ward off night's chill. Below, black jeans with strategic holes drawing the eye's attention, and black skate shoes covered her feet. She held a slim figure, attractive, and held an aura of confidence about her.

"Nope! You should go lie down, hun." Her voice washed over Nathan, smooth as the silken sheets he covered his bed with, _I want her there with me tonight._ A smile shone out from her beneath her blonde hair, its brilliant radiance like an explosion blinding her sudden admirer. _The fireworks!_

Nathan whipped his head around and to the sky, but found no bursts of light to hold his attention. A mixture of confusion and relief played on his face. An Angel laughed behind him, and he spared a wish she could be his. As he turned, however, he only bore witness to long strides taking his Angel away from him. Lust drew his attention to her backside, and he drank in the sight.

The other girl huffed through her nose, _nose coke lines cut with something so fun!_ Through blue bangs poking haphazardly down from a non-descript beanie cap, irises like tropical waters offered a glare. A camouflage Army surplus jacket layered over a graphic black tee. A necklace, a small dreamcatcher, _dreams floating whales' songs so soothing,_ dangled in the cleavage that suddenly grabbed Nathan's gaze. _Also Angel more temptress still invited all three?_

This was not a subtly done action on his part.

"No, you _can't_ touch, perv!" Came the response to a question he hadn't asked, not with words. "Men are all pigs, fuck you, man." And then the Temptress was leaving too.

 **Boom!**

Overhead, reverberations and thunder announced the arrival of the light display. The weather was clear, skies cloudless. Perfect for fireworks. The boy stumbled more than walked to the beach towels he abandoned earlier when he went, he left, searching for… _uh, where was? Finding Randy? I'm not…_

 **Boom! Boom!**

Airbursts captured his attention again, transfixed this time.

Twenty minutes passed with Nathan simply standing there, not moving, staring fixedly at the sky. Even several minutes after the mortars had stopped their firing, he stared. Thoughts began to reacquaint themselves with his consciousness slowly, so as to not shock the mind.

 _Oh man, that was_ trippy _!_ _Holy fuck! Sounds and colors and just shit yeah!_ He resolved to ask Frank more of this particular mix, coke or not. He made to start walking toward the nearest group of partyers. Vision was still unreliable, and his limbs flopped in an uncoordinated mess. He fell, unceremoniously and unnoticed. Consciousness, only seconds back in the realm of lucidity, was lost.

The next day, in a text conversation with Vance, Nathan learned he had laid on the sand until around midnight, when James and Vance found him. Since he was still breathing, they drove him back to their dorm, explaining why Nathan had woken up at the academy he would only attend two years from now.

Through foggy memories, Nathan managed to recall a description of the girl he was so enamored with that night, and James text back with a name. Rachel Amber. Had a little reputation, she did. Nathan decided then he wanted to know this woman.

He thought she was to be his Angel, with gentle eyes and a calm smile.

And that was correct, but also a mistake, and lives were lost for this discrepancy.

* * *

 **Caulfield Residence, Seattle Suburb**

 **Max**

"Have fun at your party, dear!" Vanessa almost sang with excitement for her daughter. "Don't do anything I would do!" Ryan opened the passenger side door of the sedan for his wife, and she disappeared inside. The faux-lumberjack closed first the door for his wife, then closed the distance to where Max stood on the porch.

"Be home by midnight." Her normal curfew was eleven. Not that she was ever not home by ten anyway.

"Yes, Dad." The high schooler huffed. She didn't like lying to her parents.

"I know Kristen and Fernando are good kids. But as your father I get to worry." He was stern, but not scolding.

"I know, Dad." Another sigh.

"We'll try to be home by then as well. No promises, your mother _is_ quite the handful." He turned his head toward the waiting vehicle. A smirk appeared below the beard. "I blame you."

"Oh, what _ever_!" She couldn't help but smile, too, even as she feigned outrage at the accusation. The sharp dressed man (his office required Black Tie Attire for the more official events, and Ryan filled a rental tux well) moved to join his wife (sporting an elegant full length cyan dress), but stopped once more.

"And Max, please have fun. I'm glad you're finally embracing the Seattle social scene, even a little." It was an honest request and sincere happiness. Max didn't really get out of her room much these days, after all.

A pang of guilt raced through the brunette's veins. _Ugh, I am so bad at this. C'mon Max, just a few more minutes!_ Max stumbled out a few words: "Th-thanks Dad. I'm, well, I'm trying. You have fun too." She angled her gaze downward and grabbed her left arm with her right hand, a protective act. An awkward gesture for expressing such a simple sentiment, but then Max was a rather awkward child to begin with.

After mutual smiles and nods, the Caulfield pair pulled down the driveway and raced off into the setting sun. Max went back inside, breathed a sigh of relief, and went upstairs to gather things from her bedroom. Water bottle, check. Energy bar, check. Camera, Journal, Phone, check check check.

 _I_ am _getting out of my room tonight, so I didn't_ really _lie about that, anyway._ The rationalization had zero of the soothing effect Max had wished for. _Whatever Max, it's not like you're sneaking out to get high or drunk or whatever._ She was a good kid. Almost prideful about it, but she knew she missed some experiences for it. _Even Fernando and Kristen got drunk last time we went out and saw the Fremont Troll._

But intoxicants had never called out to Max, not since the Great Wine Spill at the Price residence all those years ago. The two young pirates had received verbal flak for that particular indiscretion for years. At least, until William died.

Max stopped her descent down the steps. Small hands gripped the railing a little too tightly; heartbeats started on an irregular pattern; lungs denied the body enough air; eyelids fluttered, then closed.

After a minute, the attack passed. Max retraced her path upstairs and went to the bathroom. _Some cold water on my face helps, I really need to learn to anticipate these._ Feeling refreshed, or at least less ragged, Max again descended the stairs. She double checked the locks on exterior doors, then left out the back.

As she walked to her destination, she though back to her 'meltdown,' as she called them. Introspection was one of her skills, for plenty of practice if no other reason. She had meltdowns every so often, for various things, though she would be lying to herself if she thought that Chloe didn't figure prominently in the causes. Social faux pas, tense situations, arguments, all these could also trigger meltdowns. She thought maybe it was a sort of panic attack. She hadn't told anyone, though, not even her parents.

 _They'd just send me to a shrink anyway, right? They couldn't help. They don't know._ Bitter thoughts crept up, growing from the pit of her stomach. _Dog, they wouldn't even know I wanted to study photography if I hadn't hounded them for this instant camera!_ She let a breath out through her nose, and that seemed to calm her unbidden anger from burning hotter. _Maybe I'm too hard on them. They work hard for me, for us. That's important too, Max._

The nature park was deserted by now, most of Seattle was partying or readying themselves for the city firework display. Max didn't mind this. She enjoyed the solitude. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Text message from Kristen. 'Sorry you're missing this party Max! Cute boys everywhere!'

The grey hoodie clad girl chuckled at this. _Kristen, you know I'm not on the market. Not like_ you _are, at least._ She typed a quick reply, 'Sry. Can't date now, pics to take! ;P'

Either Max had overestimated her walking speed or underestimated the distance to the lighthouse in the park, because she found herself worrying she might not make it there in time. The sun was dangerously close to the horizon and threatening to sink even further. Her sneaker clad feet carried her as quickly as they could muster through the wooded area to her goal.

As gold drained from the canvas of the world, a sorrowful teen approached the lighthouse. _I'm too late, damn._ All she had wanted was a sunset over the water, Elliot Bay instead of Arcadia Bay, to remind her of happier times. _If only I could rewind a little, just to glimpse the sun._ She had spent many hours in her childhood ( _as if I'm not still a child_ ) at the lighthouse back home.

This structure was not as impressive as Arcadia's. It was a story or two shorter, built out more than up. Even the cliff it was perched upon sat lower to the sea; a crouching hermit to her true home's proud giant. Still, the nostalgia was there, and her foul mood subsided slightly as she rested on a bench facing the water.

She was not supposed to go out alone. She was not supposed to be in the park after dark. And she was not supposed to lie to her parents, but she had done all these things, and for such a petty thing as to steal a gold washed picture of a daily event. Sure, she could ask her father to bring her here any day of the week ( _assuming he didn't work late that day…)_. But a sunset over the ocean, on this day years ago, was a memory she shared with only one person, and even then they had snuck out to see it.

 _We were just tweens, then. Off on an adventure together, past our curfew. We wanted to see the fireworks from the cliff. And we did. Well, most of it. She didn't even care when William found us. She just laughed at him, so I did too, and then the three of us left for the Diner. Together. Now, we're all in different places. Might as well be in different Times. I'm so sorry, William. I'm so sorry, Chloe._

The single occupant of the park was silent, then, save for the occasional sniffle. She had promised herself she wouldn't cry, _not this time, not this memory, Max, just be happy for once._ But she and Promises had a strained relationship these days, more scorned lover than distant friend, and so the oceans in her irises began to leak, salt water flowing through freckled plains on her cheeks.

 **Boom!**

The salt water rivers flowed until darkness had properly replaced light, and miles away the city fireworks had started their show. The explosions weren't directly visible, but refractions of their light found their way to the Max's blurred vision. It was one more detail to list that made _this_ lighthouse inferior to _her_ lighthouse. Dejected, but with sobs finally ceased, Max decided to make her way home. Earlier than she intended, but with no Photo and no Fireworks and no Chloe and no Happiness, there was nothing left for her here.

She had set out alone, to reach for ghosts of the past to comfort her in the present. Perhaps it was a foolish notion, but she once she had thought those connections were _timeless_. That some loves could never be dissolved by time or distance.

 _Maybe I'm only fooling myself. Maybe_ I'm _the only one who's stuck in the past._

She hoped, without conviction, that Time might one day smile upon her, and allow her to undo her mistakes.

And that hope was granted, but also a terrible burden, and lives were lost for choices made.

* * *

 **Arcadia Bay Beach**

 **Chloe**

Sometimes, even though she knew it wasn't quite right, Chloe would steal longing glances at her secret crush. _Well, kinda-secret crush_. Rachel definitely suspected _something._ Just, no one had called a spade a spade yet, content to leave things as they stood.

This, laying on the twin beach towels, blue for Chloe and purple for Rachel, was one of those times. Rachel leaned back on her elbows, looking off to the horizon. The burning orange orb in the sky was just about to dive below the horizon. The amber light washed over Rachel, bringing an ethereal quality to her image. Chloe was transfixed.

 _You need to stop staring, perv. She's not into you. Why would she be into you? She's a damn goddess, she deserves better than your punk ass._

She looked out to sea. The self-described punk had a nasty habit of internal self-abuse like this. She thought it an equal trade for her ban on _external_ self-harm. The 'Blade Incident,' as she referred to it, back in '08 was enough for her.

In her introspection, _and isn't that some mushy bullshit,_ a scowl had found its way to her face. This change in countenance was noticed by her companion, and prompted a light query of "Penny for your thoughts?" from the crimson flannel clad girl. Rachel held out her hand, index finger and thumb pressed together, as if to offer an invisible coin.

Chloe reached up with both hands, removing her beanie and running a hand through newly aqua colored hair. She tried to think of something witty; a deflection away from her loathing. "Gonna cost you hella more than a penny to get inside _this_ supercomputer, Rach." It wasn't her best work, but it got the job done.

Rachel giggled, and retracted her hand. She turned her gaze back to the horizon. "The period just before the sunset, photographers call it the 'Golden Hour.' Cuz everything is bathed in that orange light, and it's so pretty, y'know?" She looked into her punk friend's blue eyes with her hazel. A thought of _why do you have to look at me like that, Rach,_ flowed through the mind behind the blue spheres.

"Yeah, that's pretty cool, I guess." Chloe was never really one for photography. Not since childhood. Not since _her._ And _she_ wasn't graced with a name in Chloe's mind, because that would be admitting Chloe remembered _her_ at all, and that was just too painful. No, better to forget. Speaking of forgetting… "Hey, you want a drink? I even brought your _gross_ wine coolers. Because you're more of a lightweight than the feather in your ear."

Rachel nodded at her friend for the drink, quite used to the light verbal barbs, absent mindedly twiddling with the mentioned blue feather dangling from her ear. "How do you always manage to score alcohol for us, though?" Her voice wasn't concerned, just curious.

"Station just north of town. Jack _Jacks-off-a-lot_ Kirkman up there works Saturday nights and never cards," explained the bluenette as she reached into her small cooler for their refreshments.

"Oh," came the small reply. "Kinda takes all the magic out of it, don'cha think?" It was a tease, because she smirked as she raised her chilled bottle to her lips.

And Chloe had a fun retort for this, something about _bitch please, I'm a level 84 sorceress_ , but was interrupted by Dennis. He had the worst sense of timing, the worst body odor in recent memory, and the worst sense of entitlement. He stumbled a bit as he approached, and swayed to and fro as he stood before Rachel. _And he's drunk._ He didn't spare Chloe a glance. _And he's a prick._

"Yo, Rachey-Rach!" _Sooo drunk. I'm almost impressed._ "I jus wunt, wann-ed to say heeey. Ran"- a hiccup – "Randy is 'ere too. Overrr, eh, there." A floppy hand gestured wildly in a direction down the beach. Chloe noticed there were a lot more people here now that the sun was down. She must've been too focused on Rachel. She let a grunt of irritation escape her throat.

Her crush ignored her. Addressing Dennis, the blonde said "that's sweet of you, Dennis, maybe I'll see you guys later!" Chloe sighed. On one hand, she admired her beautiful companion's diplomacy; she always knew the right thing to say, never on anyone's bad side. On the other, she hated seeing _her Rach_ with _those losers_.

Randy was a dealer, and Dennis one of his associates. The girls' herb habit had been sustained almost entirely by Randy since the two had met. But Rachel was the one who did the buying, and she didn't always pay with money. But Chloe had heard of a new dealer in town, and thought perhaps she could replace Randy with Fred, or Hank, or whatever his name was.

The Imperial Stout in the punk's hand, 9% alcohol by volume, _because I can actually handle my booze_ , poured down her throat in one large swig. She needed to forget, lose herself for a bit. That's what tonight was for, anyway.

Dennis left them to join the other stoners around Randy farther down the beach. Hazel eyes caught the attention of the tropical blue irises opposite her, as the body attached to them opened a second Stout.

"Why do you have to do that?" The hazel eyes narrowed.

"Do what?" Another large swig of intoxicant passed soft lips.

"The whole, 'I Hate Everybody That Isn't Rachel,' thing? Like, I'm flattered, but _come on_ , Chlo." Concern, or annoyance, or something similar flicked across the future-model's face, but Chloe wasn't up to the task of decoding those signals, even if she could have.

Uninvited anger swirled in her head. "Maybe because I _do,_ Rach. What has anybody ever done for me, huh? Besides shit on my life." Inwardly, she groaned. _Damn drink hasn't kicked in yet. Need more._ She wanted the world dulled, it was the only surefire way to escape the hate for a while. Another swig of stout.

"Chloe – "

"No," a beanie was tossed into the sand in frustration. "No, I don't want to hear 'it's not that bad' or 'it'll be ok' or any of that _shit,_ Rach. Least of all from you. Because it is that bad, ever since my dad up and _died_ on me, and it can't be ok because he's not _coming back._ " _And even_ she _isn't coming back, wherever she is,_ but that thought isn't voiced. A single salt water drop left the corner of her eye. She looked up to the sky, now darker, to hide it.

"Chloe, listen to me, please." The tone was soft, soothing, and almost pleading. A tender hand reached from one beach towel to another, joining with a rougher counterpart. A beat of silence passed. The seething anger stopped building in the blue haired girl's veins, calmness emanating from the blonde's touch. A long exhale escaped Chloe's lips.

Rachel continued, "Chlo, I _know_ you've had it tough. I won't cheapen that, not _ever._ I just don't like to see you so angry, or in _pain,_ Chloe. I just, I'm your friend, and I'm here for you. _Always._ "

And despite herself, a smile graced Chloe's lips, softening the previously steeled features of her face. _The way she says_ ' _always_ '. _I like that. It feels like, warmth, in my chest. Oh fuck, that was mushy!_ And she knew Rachel meant her words. They didn't lie, not to each other. Perhaps, the amber glow she noticed earlier in the setting sun wasn't just celestial rays, but rather light from Rachel herself. An Angel, given flesh.

Quietly, almost a sob but more a whisper, the Angel's keeper said, "Thank you, Rachel."

A simple sentiment, without explanation, but it conveyed meaning enough.

Their hands remained clasped for several minutes. No more words were exchanged, not yet, but _this is nice. Peaceful. Don't get that, much._ Rachel pulled away first, stood and made down the sand. From the booze and the endorphins, Chloe didn't register immediately that the Angel had left.

She had to run to catch up, harder to do with two beers in her bloodstream. "Rach, hey, wait up!" She called out.

"Just stay back there, 'kay? You know Randy doesn't like you, and I want some herb tonight, after everything." _Scoring buds is cool, but she doesn't have the cash today…_

Beside the two young women, a preppy kid stalked up. Uncoordinated, high or drunk or both. Chloe noticed, vaguely, but paid him no mind.

"I _know,_ Rachel, but last time…" _Don't make me say it, Rach._

"He still _owes_ me for last time, Chloe."

They stared at each other for a moment, and the bluenette knew she wasn't going to win this one. Before she could continue, however, the weird intruder spoke up.

"Am I Randy?"

 _So, you're high as fuck, dude. Go home._ Adopting a more defensive stance now, Chloe sized up the druggie. She noticed him doing the same, in a more _hungry_ way, to Rachel, and that stoked the anger in her to low flames once again.

"Nope! You should go lie down, hun." The feather-eared girl chirped in, and flashed a grin so bright Chloe thought the fireworks might pale in comparison. _Goddamn Rachel, you're so fucking kind to everyone._ Maybe he had the same thought about the lights, because he suddenly turned his focus straight up to the black sky. Rachel laughed, and resumed her march to Randy.

Chloe waited, as the high-as-kite man darted his eyes around, watching the Angel leave. She huffed a little, involuntarily. _Let it go, fucktard._ He acted as though he heard this, as his attention turned to her. Well, to a degree. If he actually saw Chloe, it was only because she was attached to the breasts he was staring at.

She was done with this rich prick, high off some club drug paid for with daddy's money. "No, you _can't_ touch, perv!" This got very little reaction, so she made to leave, determined to not make a scene for Rachel's sake. As she stormed off, jamming hands into the camo pockets of her jacket, she muttered "Men are all pigs, fuck you, man." She had her 'bad boy' phase last year. That was sufficient, she thought.

 **Boom!**

The firework show started on her way back to the towels. She opened her third stout. Waited.

 **Boom! Boom!**

Rachel found her own way back not too long afterward, no worse for wear and sporting some premium hash for their mutual enjoyment.

Much later, through a marijuana haze, Chloe vaguely recalled another memory of watching fireworks with some other girl she might have loved, but the alcohol blocked the recall of details. She decided it didn't matter, that tonight was a better night anyway.

She also decided that Rachel was indeed her Guardian, and devoted herself to preserving and protecting this celestial being.

And that decision was noble, but also foolhardy, and lives were lost in the struggle.


	4. October 7-11, 2013

**Monday, October 7, 2013**

 **Blackwell Academy, Girl's Restroom**

 **Nathan**

'You are doomed, Nathan. Just give her what she wants.'

Nathan had not had his medication today. The prescription ran out Saturday, and he wouldn't get a refill until the fifteenth of this month. Not because he wasn't prescribed enough; rather he simply preferred to sell the pills and self-medicate with more fun substances.

Unfortunately, the Others were louder after extended absences. Maybe over time they grew louder, anyway.

 _I don't owe her anything. She gets nothing._

Give her drugs, Nathan. Like you did with the last one.

 _Do not bring my Rachel into this! That was a mistake…_

He was walking at a brisk pace: enough to signal to stay out of his way, but not so fast as to draw too much attention. He neared the bathroom door, and managed a stealthy exit. There needed to be no prying eyes for this.

Blue eyes briefly scanned the room; ears below gelled and styled blonde hair detected no signs of life. A weary teenage face, carrying the warring barbs of three voices in the brain behind it, faced the mirror.

"It's cool, Nathan, don't stress."

Yes, stress! You need to fight!

"You're okay, bro. Just count to three."

His psychiatrist had taught him the counting trick years ago. It rarely worked. The Others had been building strength for much longer than he had been seeing the doc.

'You're weak, Nathan. Just give up'

"Don't be scared. You own this school, if I wanted I could blow it up!"

Now that's not a bad idea, Nathan. Violence.

"You're the boss."

His pep talk finished, it had all the calming effect of clicking the safety off a gun; not quite explosive, but closer to ignition.

'You have never been the boss, Nathan.'

 _Shut up shut up shut –_

'You follow. Never lead.'

The door to the restroom opened. Nathan need not look up to anticipate the newcomer. His eyelids attempted momentarily to press themselves into diamonds as a rough, volatile mix of anger and fear collided in his stomach. "So what do you want?" He managed through tight lips.

Look at her, Nathan. She has no power. Show her power.

'She has all the power, Nathan. Just surrender.'

And the newcomer, who wears a black jacket over a white tee, black beanie over blue hair, faded jeans over black boots, says something about "bidness," and Nathan feels suddenly very tired.

When is he not discussing business? Negotiate with teachers for grades, negotiate with Frank for drugs, negotiate with Father for money. Every interaction for Nathan is a deal. There is no one left, save perhaps Victoria ( _and isn't she hard to read sometimes),_ who truly cares about him.

"I got nothing for you."

Neither a truth nor a lie. A bait, see what the other party wants. It works, and the intrusive bluenette speaks about cash.

"That's my family, not me."

Another ambiguous statement. Another bait. See what she intends to do, what her bargaining chips are. She says she'll tattle to the Prescott family, and Nathan almost laughs.

Let her. You know Father would handle her harshly. It would be fun.

'Just give her the money, avoid the whole conflict.'

And the simmering mixtures of emotions bubble up to boiling, threatening to overwhelm their containment in Nathan's chest.

"Leave them out of this, bitch."

The troubled boy isn't really sure why this made him angry at all. He hates his family, because they never learned to love him. Because they can't help him, and he's seen too much to escape, and _that punk bitch is still fucking talking_ and Nathan just wants her to stop.

He levels the pistol at her head, "You don't know who the fuck I am, or who you're messing around with!"

Feel the control.

'She's scared, like you are.'

She's backed up into the wall, eyes darting frantically around, searching for a way out.

 _Oh god. What am I doing? I'm sorry…_

But Nathan isn't the single force of will that resides inside his mind, and he is lost in the struggle. It's not the first time. Not even the first time another life was on the line. He hopes this turns out better than last time, but the Others have different opinions on what exactly "better" means.

"Don't _ever_ tell me what to do! I'm so _sick_ of people trying to control me!" It's a strange feeling, to say something with truth to three voices inside one head, and yet have no agreement between them regardless.

 _So, so sorry…_

The words that fall out of her trembling mouth do not register as such with the gunslinger's ears. They are just noise now, drowned in the rushing rivers of thought behind his scowl.

"Nobody would ever even _miss_ your punk ass, would they?"

 _Please, I don't want to hurt…_

Like a trapped animal, and perhaps here she was, a desperate shove is levied against her captor's shoulder. But the trigger on his handgun was already half depressed in his anger, and the sudden movement caused a reactionary squeeze, jerking the trigger rearward and firing a single nine-millimeter projectile into the abdomen of his now-victim.

The proximity to the blast burns her shirt, and the bullet casing begins its flight off into the nearest stall. Nathan recoils, shock currently overpowering the emotions and voices in him. He loses grip on the weapon, and it falls to the floor, even as she does.

In that moment just before she hits the floor, crimson liquid already coating too many surfaces to overlook, Nathan thinks that there's a scream of " _NO"_ from behind him.

There are three voices in his head. One anger, one sorrow, one fear.

They agree, for once.

 _I wish it were me._

But the flow of Time in Arcadia Bay is not a line but a spiral, and sometimes the world is bent by the will of more powerful individuals. And so it was that this confrontation occurred again, perhaps several times, yet always just the once.

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 9, 2013**

 **Price Residence**

 **Chloe**

On the high definition television, credits began to roll. They were familiar. For some, watching a movie could be a social event, an excuse to get together with friends and enjoy a flick. For others, a movie might be an art exhibit, a commentary on some aspect of life. But for others, they might be an escape, a window into another world, a chance to forget the reality of one's own frailty.

Chloe belonged to this last group.

From her bed, she had no recourse to turn the movie off. There was an extra weight, on her left side, and despite the lack of feeling in her arm a chill of comfort radiated from the contact made there. _I still can't believe you're here, Max._ The bed-ridden girl wished, not for the first time, that she could reach out for her long lost friend. Just a touch, to brush back brown hair, to graze a freckled cheek, anything.

 _Maybe,_ moisture pooling in the clouds of her eyes, _in another Time. But not here, not…ever._

The blonde could still control her eyelids, at least, and she leveraged this against the flood threatening her face with a flurry of blinks. _I will_ not _get mushy over this now. Not with my Max so close._

When the floodgates were secure, the DVD had returned to the title screen. Quick scenes from the film splashed in rapid sequence to a rather muted soundtrack, offering the viewer a sneak peek at the roller coaster waiting. Of course, Chloe had seen _Blade Runner_ so many times she could place each of these flashes chronologically in her mind. She even knew most of the dialogue.

 _Not much else to do sometimes when you're just a really expensive, foul mouthed, mood swinging vegetable._ The self-loathing was a recurring theme tonight, apparently.

Perhaps the juxtaposition of the person Max had become and the shell Chloe had regressed into. This popular ( _how many times is that phone gonna buzz, Max!),_ sharp dressed, letters-on-cardstock Max that travelled and partied and had friends versus, _well, me. Can't really be your first mate like this, huh Cap'n?_

The memories conjured up like demons. Images of running, sword fighting, and climbing trees. They were both full of smiles and laughter back then. Joyous. And while Time thought it ok to allow a fraction of that happiness to seep through its twists to the present, there was also pain. Had Chloe the mobility, she'd have clutched her chest.

 _Can't run with broken legs. Can't swing a sword with useless arms. Can't climb without –_

A mouse's squeak had left her throat, a strangled groan of pent up angst and rage against herself, because _I can't do anything,_ but also that _all I do is take and take, never give, because how could I?_

The shorter girl stirred slightly, adjusting the awkward angle her head rested on an unfeeling body. Chloe would have held her breath, were it not for the respirator that actuated her breath in the first place.

 _What is it like, Max?_ She imagined questioning her childhood partner, _what's it like, out there? There's so much I never, didn't have time to do. And it's been so long now, I just… Have you ever been to California? Been to a concert? Been to a dance? Been… kissed? Gone… farther?_

In the back of her mind, there was a flash of thought. A miniscule, wordless thing, more a notion than an idea. A notion that perhaps that there had been a trade, one life for another, at some point, and she had given up so another could retain. But she could not dwell, for in the moment she tried to grasp for the words, the flicker of enlightenment faded back to the folds of the Time it had left.

The floods she fought so hard against before pressured against the levies she erected. This time, Chloe did not have the strength to fortify her position. Slowly, suppressed and noiseless, the waters started down her face. A mixture of emotions pooled in her tear ducts, waiting to ride the streams down. Sadness, for a life that was not. A life that was less about _living_ than it was about _surviving._ And anger, though tempered by the wisdom of suffering, for an uncaring world content with her pain. But also a gentle, damp glee that her parents and Max were still _alive,_ and that they could still _live,_ even when Chloe could not.

After a time, the tears stopped. Long ago now, a newly broken sixteen year old had accepted her condition, her limitations, and her half-life. But only on this night, with Max near again, did she accept her _fate._ Because Max had a life in Seattle, without Chloe, _I held her back all that time. And now, my parents are drowning just to prolong the inevitable end._

She knew death was near, could hear the Reaper sharpen his scythe in the next room. She was waiting. Just waiting. There was no choice, no decisions that were hers to make. She bore the consequences of actions taken by others with as much grace as she could for years _._ All Chloe wanted now was rest.

 _There's nothing left for me. I don't have anything, no worth. Nothing to give, not anymore. Hopefully all these years made for some good karma, or whatever. Just let me, let me_ choose, _for once. I'm so sorry Max, but please help me. Help me… end this._

With this decision made, her last, an ease fell to her. Sleep did not come easily for the tetraplegic young woman, not on this night nor any other. But this, this idea of _sacrifice_ for those she loved, this idea of finally improving their lives instead of extending her own, it gave peace.

She glanced down at her snoozing Pirate Captain. _She's beautiful when she sleeps, innocent. Why did I never notice that before?_ And as sleep finally arrived to claim Chloe's consciousness, the spark of thought that bridged Time returned. A sentiment that Max had _lived_ in this Time but only _survived_ in another. An impression that Chloe had already sacrificed her life for another, unwittingly, but not necessarily unwillingly. It didn't ease the pain, but gave purpose, that maybe her worth was always tied up in protecting another, anyway.

She fell to dreams.

 _I'm glad it was me._

But the flow of Time in Arcadia Bay is not immutable, but pliable, and sometimes critical moments are altered by the choices of well intentioned individuals. And so it was that this night never occurred, not in this way, and not this Time.

* * *

 **Friday, October 11, 2013**

 **Lighthouse Clifftop**

 **Max**

"…Ma….ax…..ake up!..."

Darkness. There had been images, no, _nightmares_ before. A terrible dreamscape of torturous bastardizations of those Max had known. Corruptions of friendship, of innocence, of love.

 _Was it real? Is any of this real? Did I break something, or… break myself?_

The darkness, the lethargy, the absence of sense, it left Max utterly alone. She knew she was not, of course, she had fought all week to find _her._ Chloe. They were together, before, heading to the lighthouse. She needed to get back.

 _Back? Back where?_

Confusion sat in her heart. She was unsure about so many things. But not this; never this. The blue haired girl was her center, now. _Maybe she always was._ Five days ago, Max hadn't spoken with her lost friend in five years. On this Friday, they had faced hardship magnitudes greater than the hours between then and now.

"Plea… can't… Max…"

Muffled sound. Not from a location, there was no space here. Her ears heard less than her heart, and she listened to the songs it sung. No music, but emotion was written there, and Max read. She read herself.

 _Who am I? Why am I here?_

Answers were there, knowledge through experience, discovery through action. The brunette had thought herself a leaf in the stream, years ago, and she sees now the incorrectness there. No, the stream had not carried her. She stood immobile, and the waters parted before her. A stone. Proud and defiant. A week ago, self-imposed mousiness restricted her.

Days later, the mouse had investigated the lion's den, escaped a wolf's jaws, found the missing doe, and saved a fragile butterfly. The mouse roared as a dragon.

She knew herself, was happy with who she became. Confidence without overbearing. Kindness without surrender. Identity without self-doubt. Clarity swept through her mind like winds through the fields.

 _Winds._

"Tornado… a little more, M…"

Warmth, there. The sounds were warmth. A soothing, weariness gone, determination in its place. The wind could not extinguish the flames burning, there. A bonfire, reawakened after an absence.

The lost soul felt the wind bring rain, now, too. A pelting upon skin she didn't have. Wind honed itself into a weapon, lashing as whips into her phantom presence. But the Time Warrior was not a stranger to pain.

She drew power from the flames in her chest, struck out with limbs she didn't have. Max felt a shift, a tear in existence.

 _Nothing will keep us apart._

She meant it, more than she had meant anything before, even as she grew to know there was only death down that road. That what she felt, for _her,_ was too much, was beyond linear causality. Too strong for Time itself to handle, and thus Time became confused.

 _Snows too early, eclipse out of position, moons from different times._

Pain seared through her mind, as she combatted the emptiness attempting to take her. An ache began in her abdomen,and she felt gravity again, after immeasurable Time, because some struggles happened outside chronology.

Senses returned, but groggily. A question floated to Max's ears on a shaky breath, and she beheld the other drenched girl in still-blurred vision. _She's safe, oh, she's still safe._

"Chloe… I, I must've passed out. Sorry."

There was no time now, _no pun intended,_ to discuss what had happened prior. No chance to discuss the developments in Max's head, nor her heart. Only time to discuss the end of all things.

From relative safety on the clifftop, they watched, as damage accumulated below. The bluenette discussed fate, like she had when she occupied her literal deathbed yesterday and a lifetime ago. She produced a picture, of impossibly iridescent blue wings, and offered a choice.

"I won't trade you, Chloe!" The time traveler challenged, already knowing she had lost this fight. Lost it when she first grew to love her friend, lost it when she moved away and when she moved back, too. Lost it when she held the butterfly photo in her hands, and had a chance to be an Everyday Hero.

Max kissed her mate, claimed a moment of joy in the face of tragedy. Soft lips, so used to hard cursing, now molded so perfectly to her own. It was unlike before; not quick, not experimental. Chaste, but purposeful. To let her know, without the stumble of words, what their time together had meant. To show the enormity of conviction behind Max's passion for Chloe. To impress upon them a memory, soon to be lost to Time, of a love that could not be, for it was too pure.

The words aren't enough, not really, but they exchanged vows of _I love you,_ and _don't forget about me,_ _never._

Max held the photo, and let her mind slip into the little piece of time it held.

And she held no fear, only an anxiousness. There were more choices on the board than _Sacrifice Chloe_ or _Sacrifice Arcadia Bay._ She had made her choice already, it was just a matter of waiting.

If there was one cause for all this, one domino to start the chain, then that is the true Sacrifice.

 _It has to be me._

And the flow of Time in Arcadia Bay is not malicious nor angry, but sometimes its paths are broken and require mending by the most worthy individuals. And so it was that this week found its savior, built her up to a goddess, but traded her for peace.


	5. Return to October 7

**Monday, October 7, 2013**

 **Return to Blackwell Academy, Girl's Restroom**

 **Max**

The world faded into existence once more as an new Polaroid fades its image into view. Out the window, the Traveler viewed the edges of reality as burning walls of eldritch color. She looked down at her hands, holding her old camera. The camera she broke – will break – won't have the chance to break – later today.

 _It's like I'm just a visitor here: Max Caulfield, Time Tourist._ The door opened, and the grim nature of her task re-centered in her mind's eye. _Oh, yeah. I guess… it's time. Fuck all._

"It's cool, Nathan, don't stress."

 _Oh, piss off._

"You're okay, bro. Just count to three. You're the boss."

 _Not much time, let's go Mad Max._

 _For Chloe._

"If you're the boss, why'd you let Jefferson boss your bitch ass around?"

 **Nathan**

 _What the actual fuck?_

'She knows about Jefferson! How?'

No good, Nathan. Shut her up.

Nathan turned to face the girl from the corner. Vaguely familiar, but never important enough a person to remember. Until just now, anyway.

"You just keep your whore mouth shut right the fuck up." _Intimidate. Stand tall, Nathan._

"Eat shit and die, fucker. You and your _pathetic_ dysfunctional family. No wonder your sister ran away to the Peace Corps…"

Before the youngest Prescott noticed, his gun was out of his waistband and trained, shakily on the girl. He took a step forward.

 _How does she know all this?_

Stop her, Nathan.

'Run! Run, coward!'

 **Chloe**

 _Oh ho! I guess I'm not the only one who's got beef with the Prescotts, damn girl._

Chloe stood, rather awkwardly, with her ear pressed to door of the restroom. She had thought just eavesdropping on Nathan talking to himself was good enough, but now this other chick had torn into him, _fucking fearlessly, I might add._ She thought maybe an ally was a good thing to have these days, and there was something… soothing, familiar, about the voice inside.

"You don't know who the fuck I am or who you're messing around with!"

 _Cue eye roll. C'mon, Nathan, you're a whiney bitch._

"Please, Nathan. You want me to blab about the Dark Room to everyone?"

 _I – What? Dark Room, the fuck? But there's such a confidence to that voice though. Yes, ally material, Team Chloe Go!_

"Shut up! Don't threaten me, nosy bitch! Who'd miss you, anyway?"

Concern began in Chloe here at the odd choice of words. This might not just be two feuding students yelling at each other after all.

 **Nathan**

Nathan pressed the smaller girl into the wall, barely missing the tampon dispenser. His pistol was jammed into her ribcage, his control rapidly fading. Despite this, she had blue steel in her glare.

She whispered, sending a chill down the already trembling boy's spine. "I'm taking you, and Jeffer _shit,_ and your whole family down, Nathan. Do your fucking worst."

 _What am I doing? Oh god, I'm sorry…_

Nathan squeezed his eyes tightly, trying to blink himself out of existence.

Nathan! You have control, feel it.

'She's scared, Nathan, like you are.'

 _So, so, sorry…_

 **Max**

"You're _just_ like everyone else! Stop trying to _control me!"_

The sound reverberated around the ceramic tile of the bathroom. The pain didn't register, not at first, just a shock to Max's system that stole the wind from her lungs.

The path of the bullet took it straight through one lung, and hydrostatic pressure waves caused the partial burst of the other. Behind the girl, the projectile lodged itself in the wall, and a slick layer of red coated the same.

Thoughts took ages to form, but the world seemed to be moving in slow motion anyway. Nathan dropped the firearm, recoiling in what seemed to Max like surprise at what he'd done.

Far away, a door opened, and a scream of " _NO"_ echoed down to the dying girl's ears.

 _Chloe. You're safe. Good._

As her fallen angel approached, Max lost track of the other things in her vision.

 **Chloe**

 _Fuck. Shit. Fuck-shits._

Chloe's thoughts were not eloquent at this time. Adrenaline sped through her veins, and her vision narrowed itself to a rather confined cone of view. Nathan had run off, muttering whatever, but the gun was here, and this girl whoever…

 _Oh, no. Oh, fuck. No, no, shit, shit-shit-shit._

She recognized this girl. How could she not.

 _Max, why are you…? What do you…? How did…?_

It seemed enough consciousness remained in Max to recognize Chloe as well, because a small, pained smile graced trembling lips. Almost like she expected the visit. Chloe knelt next to her long lost friend.

"Max, Max, shit, hey, you're, uh, it's gonna be fine, ok? Just stay, stay with me?"

The bluenette, terrified of the sight before her, pressed her hands on top of Max's own, applying pressure to the wound. _Have to stop the bleeding, right? Have to, have to help…_ Thoughts faded away, though, in the face of the tragedy of that Monday.

Words fought to escape from paling, dying lips, but there was not enough air to make sound. Instead, a hand lifted toward Chloe. Gently, as gently as a museum curator handles priceless artifacts, the brunette's non-bloodied hand cradled the bluenette's cheek. She leaned into the touch, subconsciously.

The smile on drained lips brightened, briefly, the final gasp of a candle burned too quickly, then darkness overtook her. Her hand fell from Chloe's cheek, and she knew. Felt the shift in reality.

Her step-father, the head of security, found her a minute or so later, glossy eyed, retreated into the corner of the bathroom, almost hiding behind the mop bucket stashed there. He knew a little something about loved ones dying in your arms. He held her, and she let him, until the paramedics and the police showed up, too late.

Later, much later, in her room, staring at the photo of a blue butterfly, she knew that she should have been the one to take that bullet.

But Max did instead.

Her first Angel. Now, she hoped, a literal angel.

 _Life is…so unfair._


	6. The Second October 11, 2013

**Friday, October 11, 2013**

 **Arcadia Bay Lighthouse**

 **Chloe**

It was midday. The sun rose triumphantly high in the sky, dancing a victory tune for a battle known only to itself. The clouds, for their part, made themselves scarce; only wispy trails of white remained to obscure the jubilant star. The wind, not wanting to be forgotten, blew in short, mild gusts, just enough to offer a chill. Birds in the woods that lined the lighthouse pathway chirped joyous songs, a chorus to the astral dance above.

The day couldn't be a better contrast to the state of Chloe's mind. Currently, rage held dominance over sorrow, but the two had been warring furiously since Monday anyway. In her fury, no object was immune from her sights. She imagined the destruction of the entire town, by bomb, by meteor strike, by tornado. It didn't help, but it held the pain in check temporarily.

Two funerals were held today, neither were well attended. _The_ _Dark Room victim special double feature._

Rachel, _my Rachel,_ had been exhumed and autopsied from the junkyard earlier in the week. Evidence collected, Seattle Police Department Crime Lab called in to help, processing expedited for good PR and closure for the family.

 _What passed as her family, anyway. Useless mom and half-drunk dad._

Chloe didn't speak to them at the burial. They hadn't invited her, first of all. And they had banned her from their home years prior, so relations weren't exactly smooth. Still, they knew the connection the young girls had, and didn't have Chloe removed.

Max's body was treated much the same. Declared Dead-on-Arrival to the hospital Monday, and given the obvious nature of her injuries was spared the autopsy process. The Caulfields had decided to bury their daughter in her hometown, as she had never loved Seattle half as much as Arcadia, they said.

Chloe watched them, as the casket lowered. They were properly sad, broken, and there was a regret in their posture. An inkling that they hadn't quite known their child as well as they thought, and now never could.

Nathan was arrested within an hour of the incident, even before Chloe left the bathroom. His confessions led to Mark Jefferson's arrest later that night. The news reported the police had caught him preparing to flee the town.

Both criminals were to be transported today from the town jail today: to a secure mental health facility for Nathan ( _Prescott money easing that process, the pricks)_ , and an even _more_ secure State Prison for Jefferson. Nathan had already plead guilty to his charges, eschewing legal representation from the Prescott estate. Jefferson was being moved more for his own protection: inmates tended to hold quite negative views of sex offenders, and they had less reason to wait for an official 'Guilty' verdict.

All this knowledge, acquired from a week's worth of moping around the house and watching intermittent news coverage, did not help Chloe's mood. She knew justice took time to be done properly, but _I'd rather just shoot the fuckers myself, thank-you-very-much!_

She hit the wooden bench on which she sat. The wood was sturdy, despite the years of weathering, and her knuckles took the damage instead.

"Fuck!"

She hit it again, because smart decisions weren't exactly her forte, and felt the bruise begin to form over the bones there. A flash of memory to a razor and an empty heart five years ago, and she stopped. Because if she started down that path, she wouldn't be able to stop. And as much as she didn't want to keep _surviving_ she didn't want to _die,_ either. She rose to her feet and began to pace a curt circle in front of the bench.

 _Everything in my life goes to piss. Everyone, they just, fucking die. Why?_

The world-consuming flames of anger gave way then to the self-consuming waters of anguish. As usual, the sudden shift left Chloe wobbly on her feet, as her stomach did flips and her heart wrung itself in a twist.

What she wanted was a nice joint to smoke, but Frank had left Arcadia Bay ( _just up and left right after Rachel got dug up, weirdo)_ and she had no other contacts and no stash left.

The soul-tortured youth sat back down on the bench. She stood back up, paced away, paced back, sat down again. Her body felt itchy, every point on her skin crawling with the sense of _wrongness_ that it shouldn't be alive at all. That what she really wanted was to trade places with Max, or Rachel, or her real Dad, so that they could make something of themselves where she could not.

She leveled her eyes to the horizon. A fishing vessel was trolling back to dock, an early return. _I wish we could have become pirates, instead, Max. I'm sorry. Sorry you took my place._

Even after five days of wondering, Max's reappearance in her life, however brief, confused Chloe. The recognition in her eyes, as though the pair had already reconnected. The smile, hinting at acceptance despite all the pain. The tenderness of her last touch, contact light but heavy with affection. Years of hating her lost friend melted away in seconds, lost along with their innocence.

A sudden coolness settled on hot cheeks, and tear ducts began their work. Silent streams fell from bloodshot orbs. Exhaustion settled in, too. The day's set of mood swings and pain and _goddamn mushy shit_ catching up to her slender frame. She sank into the bench, uncomfortable but unmotivated to move.

Some time passed like this, her face drying and her mind dulling. She watched clouds and birds and waves to keep her thoughts occupied. She startled when a new weight situated itself on the seat beside her.

"What, hey, the fuck?" Abruptly elevated from her slouched position, Chloe readied herself to fight, but calmed at the familiar, yet generally despised, face that joined her. "David?"

The former soldier only nodded at this, and he too stared into the distance. Confusion danced through Chloe's body. _What is he doing here? As if I don't have enough shit to deal with today?_

But the silence, an oddity between the two of them in the past, allowed her to corral the barbs she wanted to hurl at him. Perhaps he knew this; perhaps he thought his presence was tolerable only without sound.

Another time passed, and the two became almost complacent in the peace the clifftop offered. Nature offered ambience, birds and wind and such, but never intruded on the humans' meditation. Eventually, though, it was the elder that broke the silence.

"I lost a good friend, before. Over there. I don't…. I've never really talked about it. With anyone." His tone was unlike what his step-daughter had heard before. There was almost a reverence to it; a deep but soft respect offered to the ghost of a lost comrade.

Chloe did not respond. _Is step-douche, like, trying to bond with me? Comfort me?_ The very notion was foreign. Their relationship was one of conflict and one-upmanship, not sharing and tenderness. As this revelation tossed itself around in the beanie-clad head, David continued.

"We were returning to base. Patrol over. Convoy stopped, traffic jam, civvie truck accident. It wasn't a trap, just a good opportunity." As the veteran spoke, a glaze covered his eyes and his grip on the wood beneath him tightened. A long sigh. "That's not… important. Not anymore." He shook his head, as if to shed himself of unwanted memories.

Blue eyes beneath blue hair watched, inexplicably transfixed by the exposition. _I'm dreaming. I fell asleep, and I'm gonna wake up and feel like an idiot for listening to the Major Dickhead in my sub-conscience._ A self-inflicted pinch to her arm, however, proved otherwise.

"You don't need to know how it happened. Even I try to forget that." A forced swallow. "My friend, Phillip, he… got hit. We tried to, to stop, the bleeding…" Something eerily similar to a strangled sob escaped his throat, another new sight and sound for Chloe to witness. After a moment to compose himself, her step-father went on. "I held him. Saw his last exhale." A pause, a _click_ in the girl's head connecting the story to today, this week. "We had enlisted together, back in Arkansas. Together since Basic Training. And then… Then it was just me."

The teenager felt strange. On one hand, she wanted to yell. Yell that today was not about _David,_ not about _Phil._ On the other, she wanted to curl up and die under her current seat, because _Dad is dead, Max is dead, Rachel is dead, this Phillip guy is dead, everybody dies._ But she didn't yell, and she didn't curl up. She didn't mean to, didn't think to, but she placed a weary hand on a larger weary shoulder and simply stated, in a raw and scratchy voice, "I'm sorry, David."

Compassion was never a skill the rebel cultivated. Not for anyone outside a select few, anyway. And she wouldn't know it for a while, and wouldn't admit it for a while after that, but David was the same.

"Thank you, Chloe." A small smile, fractions of a second in length, added to the list of firsts Chloe was compiling. "But today isn't for Phil. It's for Max, and Rachel." Chloe's chest constricted at their names. "I just wanted you to know, you aren't alone. Your mother and I are here. And I'll… try. Try to listen. I know what it's like, is all."

 _All it took for us to get along is for my angels to die. I guess only demons are left._ And she knew this was unfair, perhaps even cruel, but the darkness in her had no boundaries.

Heavy silence followed. The sun grew low in the sky, beginning to shift the world toward red. Chloe ruminated on three words, ' _you aren't alone.' I'm not? Hasn't everyone abandoned me already? I'm just a fuck up to be used then left behind, that's it. Everybody lies._

… _Right?_

That sudden coolness returned to her cheek. She reached up, instinctively, somehow expecting to find a hand, another's skin.

She leaned into a touch that wasn't there, but felt soothed regardless.

She was always alone, she told herself. But everybody lies, and maybe that included herself.

* * *

 **West Oregon Rehabilitation Center**

 **(Formerly Oregon Hospital for the Criminally Insane)**

 **Nathan**

"This will be your room, number 143." A pleasant voice, originating from a pleasant woman, cultivated to be non-threatening and soothing.

"My cell, you mean." A terse voice, anger contained below the surface, but just barely, cultivated precisely to be threatening and grating.

"Only if you choose to view it as such. I hope you do not, Nathan. We are here to help you." A smile, practiced yet genuine.

"Yeah, whatever." A frown, spontaneous and only half-hearted. Or third-hearted, as there were still three voices contending for dominance in a psyche shattered by a bathroom gunshot.

"We are progressive here. You can see there are no prison bars, no striped uniforms. Guards, yes; locks, yes; rules, yes. Your level of freedom is yours to choose, by your actions. You have control over your destiny here." This enraged all three personalities simultaneously. _Control!? Destiny!?_

A rolling laugh, staccato beats and sharp breaths, echoed down the hall of patient rooms. "Control? You think I have power here? This _is_ my prison. Sentenced by a _judge_. You think I would be _here_ if I had _control,_ you cunt _?_ " The new arrival aimed his fiercest glare at the doctor.

Eye contact was held, but a glare was not returned. Green eyes above standard business attire searched angry blue eyes, not with fear nor anger, but forgiveness. The incongruity of this made Nathan and the Others inside him uneasy. Thankfully, prescribed medication kept the Others silent. Mostly. For now.

Despite everything he had faced and endured, compassion was perhaps the scariest sight of all.

Turning away, Nathan opened the door. _My door, now. No bars, but same effect._ Inside, it was not dissimilar to his Blackwell dorm room. Approximately the same size, but less width. On the right side was a bed, sized for one. Straight ahead, a simple wooden writing desk sat below the room's only window. A plastic chair, pencil case, stack of paper, and lamp completed the look. The wall to the left opened partially into a closet. Beige walls stood bare and boring. An intercom was built into the wall directly near the doorway.

"I don't blame you for your anger, Nathan. I can't say I would fare better. But we _are_ here to help. In time, I hope you come to see that." The doctor turned, then, and made to leave Nathan in his new home. Before she closed the door ( _electronic locks, keycard controlled, 'not a prison' my ass),_ she added, "You mentioned power and control. You'll find both within yourself, should you look, but perhaps not in the forms you've grown to expect."

A soft _click_ notified the currently motionless boy that he was alone, for now. Outside his window, where his gaze now landed, he could see a swath of the facility's property, designed to invoke feelings of 'nature,' including a small but well-groomed pond, barely illuminated in the dusk. The suitcase of clothes that now comprised the entirety of his possessions ( _mailed here, I guess. Father has his own battles to fight now)_ waited for him by the closet.

But to hang shirts in the closet would be to acknowledge that this is not a temporary relocation; each article of clothing permanently stowed away its own small surrender to forces greater than himself. And while the blond had no illusions of escape, not yet, he nevertheless didn't want to rush into complacency.

' _You'll find both within yourself.' What a crock of shit._ Nathan sat on the Spartan bed. The week had been stressful, to say the least. _It's not even my fault, right? Between the Others and Jefferson and Father…_

It was then that the Others were able to break back into his subconscious, medication wearing thin and lowering the stalwart barrier protecting the too-fragile construct that was Nathan's mind.

Of course it's not your fault. Everybody shits on you, and we need to get even, Nathan.

'Of course it's your fault. You were too weak, and you need to forget everyone else, Nathan.'

The sudden return of voices was not totally unwelcome. For years, they were constant companions, antagonisms aside. And even though their presence could be felt when they couldn't be heard, the internal dialogue was familiar to the conflicted boy.

A stifled laugh broke the silence in the small room. _And isn't that the saddest part? I missed the fucking_ voices _in my head._

What would you be without us? Have you forgotten who you are?

 _I might not be a murderer without you, at least. And no; I can't forget what I never knew._

'How could you have survived without us? Have you forgotten the hardship and pain?'

 _I might have adapted, instead of breaking, splintering. And no; I can't forget what's written in my skin._

The exchange, an odd volley of thoughts, was not new. The Others were a part of him, Nathan had reasoned a long time ago. Convinced himself they were necessary to continue his climb to the top of the world. Made himself believe they were helpers, kindred spirits. Ghosts of his past to guide him through the present, shape a better future. They had brought him power, and control, in his wasted youth.

Power. Control. The buzzwords he lived his life by, passed down from Father to Son. He wanted those back, needed them to feel whole again, but…

' _Perhaps not in the forms you've grown to expect.' Maybe I didn't give the bitch enough credit._

No, Nathan. She wishes to destroy you, steal your strength.

'No, Nathan. She wishes to manipulate you, keep you trapped.'

Blue eyes rolled in an exaggerated fashion, and two balled fists struck the bed in sequence. A sudden feeling of foolishness washed over the new resident. _I actually missed these fucks?_

We are you.

'You are us.'

There was truth in the statements made. And yet Nathan felt the paradoxical falsity of the claims like a javelin in his heart. Three thirds of a whole, yet even the completed puzzle had pieces missing.

 _You aren't ghosts from my past. You are demons._

Nathan…

 _All consuming, scorching what I touch._

'Nathan…'

Anger bubbled up, caught in his throat. It changed there, into a sadness, an acknowledgment of loss. An idea that his demons had led him, willingly, to sacrifice two angels. Rachel; his angel, bold and blinding, a stage's spotlight. Then Max, too; a lost angel, warm and glowing, a camp's fire.

What do you want, then?

'What do we not provide, then?'

And for once, Nathan didn't wish for power or control. He didn't want to be the boss anymore; he didn't want to have the world in his palm. He just wanted to be _whole._ Away from the wars in his brain. Away from the storms of his family. He wanted to be left alone, if only so he could find himself in the rubble.

 _Freedom. Of mind. Of spirit._

The Others didn't reply.

 _I don't want to become a demon, too. I guess I'm too late._

A strange yet soothing coolness settled on his shoulder, a gentle hand. Nathan glanced up, readying a tired, toothless grin for a comforting friend.

But the room was empty, save for his body.

He was never a king, he reminded himself. But everyone has scars, and maybe kings were just as haunted as he was.

* * *

 **The Void's Threshold**

 **Max**

The fall forward after a photo-jump was always the most surreal, disorienting aspect of the power to twist time. The Traveler was pulled through the current, not _seeing_ events, precisely, but _feeling_ changes. Differences in the river's flow. Sometimes, she thought she could catch a glimpse of these discrepancies; her mind burning and replacing old snapshots with new images altogether. But Max never _remembered_ these things. And that deposited weight on her conscience that perhaps these lives weren't meant to be hers.

This jump wasn't the furthest, not by far, but the trip back to Monday certainly cost the Heroine far more than any other. More than anything else could, indeed. She had traded her life for another, for hundreds of others. _And I've had more Time in my life than most, so it's fair enough, I guess._

And so, she fell. Time forged news paths through the future, and Max sailed blindly along it. But this trip was different. More ethereal, less tangible. Those ghosts of old images and pictures of new reality escaped her sight. Void welcomed her, offered an embrace. A broken empty cold full of warm completion.

Then she landed, but had no form, and hadn't the sense to know she arrived. Five days re-done, hundreds of fates rewritten, and countless choices remade. An awareness gnawed at the edges of her consciousness. She opened eyes that didn't exist anymore. A familiar sight welcomed her.

The lighthouse stood, proud as ever and none the worse for wear. No winds nor debris had damaged this beacon, not in this Time. The weather was bright, _almost too bright, wowzer._ Few clouds graced the sky with their presence, instead content to let the sun shine as much as it could. Max reached her hand skyward to shield her vision from the intensity of the rays.

A ghost's hand offered little resistance to the light, however.

 _Wha… Oh no. Oh, oh._ She shook her non-corporeal head, to obvious non-effect. _You're ok, Max. No, I'm dead, I'm not ok!_ Even as a spirit, familiar panic began to assault her. _Uh, deep breaths?_ She tried, and though she felt her body move through the motions, no air entered her lungs. _Ugh, of course. Don't freak, Max. Um, count to three?_

And this triggered a week old (but only mere minutes old, too) memory of similar words from another in a bathroom not too far from where she stood. Memory of pain lanced through her chest, time now unable to dull the sensations of recollection.

She dropped to her knees. Between the panic, anxiety, and pain, she forgot to note that at least her new existence interacted with the earth. The dirt beneath her outstretched palms was left undisturbed; the solidity of the matter due to her expectations of it more than any physical properties exhibited.

Slowly, the dead girl gathered her bearings again. Pain subsided as her rattled mind turned attention to other things, namely an impatient foot tapping rapidly, and a soft humming from the same source. Trying to push herself up from the ground left her arms in the ground. Instead, she recalled the _feeling_ of straightening her posture, and this allowed Max the opportunity to regain her footing.

 _Is this another Nightmare? Oh, dog, is this even real anymore? It's so hard to tell. Ugh._

Blue eyes searched forward, toward the cliff's only building. Hazel eyes, neither known nor foreign, returned the gaze. The other girl wore a plain V-neck black tee, quarter sleeved, and blue jeans cut to shorts length. A blue feather dangled from an ear beneath flowing blonde hair.

 _Rachel? Oh what in the actual f-_

"Uh, hi?"

- _uck. She's a ghost too?_

"…hey." The brunette gave an unhurried reply, still unsure how to process this situation.

A clipped laugh shot from the feather-eared girl, seemingly surprising herself as much as Max.

"Sorry!" An energy flowed from her voice, and gave more life to words than they required. "Just, I haven't really had any visitors in a while, y'know?"

"Tell me something about you I don't know." Max's request came out more like a command than she had intended, but she wouldn't apologize for assertiveness. A mouse had learned to roar through tears, sweat, and blood. And she needed proof; proof that this image was external, not her own mind's creation.

Rachel cocked her head and appraised the new girl, confusion scrawled on her features. "Shouldn't that be, like, everything? Have we met, or whatever?"

Internally, Max laughed. Externally, she managed to contain her amusement to a sly grin. _Damn Time Travel. Screwing me up even when I'm dead. This Rachel – Ghost Rachel, I guess – wouldn't have been able to watch me and Chloe look for her this Time. That week is gone, even in the afterlife._

"It's a…long story." Max said to explain, or avoid explaining as the case may be. She wracked her brain for a question to ask, simple enough to grant an immediate answer, but specific enough to satisfy a realism check. _The Nightmare was my own construct, I think. Just fears and insecurity and_ me _in there. So if this Ghost Rachel gives me info I don't know, then maybe this isn't another mental breakdown._

But Max was interrupted in her introspection by a shouted "Fuck!" and the crack of an object hitting unyielding wood. She didn't need to turn to know who it was; Max would recognize that voice through all of Time and back. The grin on her thin lips widened into a tight smile, now. _That's my Chloe. Sudden profanity and all._

The older specter smiled at this too, and her previous confusion was replaced with a softness. Max noted this before turning to see her best friend. Another _thump_ punctuated another strike of the bench, and Max winced when Chloe did. Inexplicably, Max's spirit-hand began to throb, as if it too had struck the bench.

A rush of emotion washed over Max, like paint accidentally spilled over an empty canvas. Colors blended, contrasted, ran wild streams over white background. Red anger, blue depression, green regret. Some was Max's, she felt, but some felt external. As if another's paints had seeped into her own.

Her introspection was again interrupted, this time by her fellow dead. "You're Max. And I saw what you did in that bathroom. Holy shit, you went from zero to sixty, girl! One second you're hiding in the corner, next moment you're like, 'Eat shit and die!' I almost died right there!" More laughter, high pitched and good natured, rolled out of the blonde at this last bit, realizing the terrible pun. "Yeah, sorry, already dead, sure."

Max really didn't want to chuckle at this, but she did anyway, if only to reorient her mind away from Chloe's obvious pain temporarily. And this gave Max her question.

"So, you must've known Chloe. How'd you meet up with a girl like her?" The inquirer wasn't exactly happy with the delivery, too clinical, but she didn't want to chance a Rewind in this nether realm, either.

The bubbly personality opposite her didn't miss a beat at the awkwardness of Max's questioning, however. "We were tight, for a long time, for sure. We met at the Two Whales, actually. You remember the Diner?" Max nodded. "She was grounded or whatever, and Joyce was making her bus tables as punishment. She went out, on break, to sneak a cigarette, and I went out to chat. We just kinda, hit it off, I guess? Like we both needed a friend at that time."

Max rolled this story over in her mind, deciding it was good enough, for now. "I'm glad she found someone, after…" the photographer swallowed, "…after everything she went through." Familiar guilt strangled her heart, sharp as the day she left for a new life in Seattle.

"She knew it wasn't your decision, I think, but still she faulted you for it. Easier to blame her friend than herself for all the pain. Still sucks you never even called, though." A spectral finger jabbed the air in the younger ghost's direction. " _So_ not cool, Max. She coulda used you, over the years."

 _She knows all about me. I guess I didn't think Chloe would even want to talk about her past. Even to Rachel, her Angel._

"But hey, I don't have much more time, so we gotta talk, sweetie."

 _Say what now?_

"So, short story is that you're a ghost, yes. Me too. Quick aside? Poltergeist powers are way cool, holy-fuck-buckets." There was vague similarity to Rachel and Chloe's speech, Max noticed. "We sorta, I dunno, are stuck in-between? I could watch, but I couldn't change things. But now, after everything this week, I can feel this pull, like I can _leave_ finally."

… _What? I take it all back, this can't be real._

 _Though I_ am _a Time Lord. Are ghosts that much of a stretch?_

 _Sigh. Why can't this be easy for once?_

"And now, you're here, and my body is found and Jefferson is arrested and Nathan is in a mental hospital or whatever and I didn't even have to lead anyone to find my body after all and look I was never the caretaker type anyway and I just wanna rest now, so…" The run-on sentence petered out. As a specter, without the need for rest or breath, Max thought Rachel could have spoken until she ran out of words. Maybe, in way, she did.

Rachel continued, quieter, with less energy. "Take care of her, 'kay? Better than I did. She thought I was her Angel, but, she was my rock. Tied me to the Earth, kept me from flying into the Sun. I still flew too high, though, and I scorched my wings."

Hazel eyes clouded as they locked onto a blue gaze. A silent plea, for a better future. For everyone.

"I'll never abandon Chloe. Never again." And for the first time, Max felt like she could keep that promise.

 _I'll always be here for you Chloe. Even if you never know it._

The manic energy returned to Rachel instantly. She beamed a gorgeous smile, bright enough to light the Bay, and moved from her spot by the lighthouse.

"See you around, Max!"

A flash of a pained and broken girl confined to her bed, speaking her last words, raced through Max's head. She had a different answer this time.

"Not for a while, Rachel."

A flash of light. A doe snorted her answer and pranced off into the woods.

 _The doe?! Ah, sure, why not? Death is strange._

Max heard quiet conversation from the bench, and was surprised to see David and Chloe sharing a moment. By focusing on how walking should feel like, the spirit made her way to the bench, and sat beside her best friend.

The sensation of emotions not quite her own returned as Max regarded the bluenette. An ethereal hand reached up to cup a reddened cheek. Max felt the heat, burning too hot. She hoped she could calm the flames before they consumed her lost love.

Chloe leaned into the touch that wasn't there, and Max felt hope.

Chloe was alive. Rachel was at peace. Nathan and Mark were facing justice. David was mending fences. Arcadia Bay was saved.

She was always a wall flower, she thought, just a butterfly in the wind. But even a butterfly's wings can cause hurricanes.


	7. August 25, 2016

**Thursday, August 25, 2016**

 **Prescott Legacy Nature Park**

 **Nathan**

 _Click! Whirr_.

"This is really cool, Doctor, thank you." Nathan lined up his next shot, this time to capture a green turtle resting upon a rock by the waterline.

 _Click! Whirr_.

The doctor, familiar by now with the man's photography habits, loosed a chuckle. "Please, Nathan, my name is _Agatha._ I've been your doctor for three years now!" A content sigh, having said these words before, followed. "And the camera didn't come from me, remember."

"Yeah, yeah, mysterious package bullshit, whatever."

Indeed, the package had arrived at the rehab facility sans return address or any documentation, simply marked "Attention: Nathan P." An instant camera, obviously well cared for, and film for its use. The Art and Creativity Support Group was abuzz with conspiracy theories since it arrived last Friday. ( _Victoria denied sending it, too.)_

"Still, thanks for bringing us out here."

For fuck sake's, Nathan, get our nose out of her ass, will you?

 _Expressing gratitude is a positive attitude. And it's my nose, not ours._

The Others were still alive. But Nathan was holding his own now, armed with cannons of optimism and supported by the mortars of therapy with the good Doctor Agatha. The war might never end, Nathan knew now, but his will to survive was stronger now than ever before.

Whatever, fucktard, you just –

 _I'm ignoring you now, Other. Pictures to take._

 _Click! Whirr_. Another turtle, more of a blue, had joined the other.

"You are all quite welcome."

A heart-lifting smile radiated from the woman as she examined her "class." Around them, five others from the Center had assembled their own supplies in accordance with their tastes. Three painters (Gracie, Don, and Tim), one poet (Francis), and a sketch artist (Skip) rounded out Nathan's photography. These "Field Trips" were rare, but very treasured by the Group.

This particular park had only opened last month, a public relations stunt for the still-crippled Prescott Family name. Reclaimed forest, newly groomed, and a small secluded lake at its center, the Nature Park was not the grandest of its kind, but still offered charm to the locals. Mrs. Diana Prescott, heading the estate for the past few years, had only fractions of the business and political sense with which her husband had led them to prominence. Kristine, returned triumphantly from the Peace Corps, no doubt factored significantly into the newest Good Will campaign. Still, this had been a success, and the public was pleased with the development.

But the Photographer son did not miss them. In fact, he rather despised them, even though he told Agatha otherwise.

 _I may have become a demon, but I learned from the devils themselves._

'Nathan, please. They tried to help you grow into your role, your power.'

 _Exactly, Other. My role was predestined. I did not want it._

'Perhaps if you had embraced it, you wouldn't be here, we could have control.'

We could truly be free, then. Not caged.

Nathan paused, camera poised to capture another picture, this time of Gracie and her paints. He had thoughts like these before, sure, but the pain was fresh each time.

 _One. Two._

Caged, Nathan!

 _Three. Four._

'Wish we could go back, don't you?'

 _Five. Six._

Still weak.

 _Seven. Eight._

'Don't shut us out, Nathan!'

 _Nine. Ten._

Silence. The victor took a deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes. Agatha was aware of the struggle, and stood near, but didn't interfere. She knew this was his battle to fight.

A pencil scratched images on heavy paper. Brushes slid color along canvas. A pen looped words in a notebook. Nathan listened to the sounds of creation. Art. It calmed him, to remind himself that death and destruction didn't rule; soothed him, to think that he could still enrich life today despite having taken life before.

He waited. A minute, then another. Listening for the roars of enemy minds assaulting his own. Listening for the return of the Others. Instead, he heard only his fellow artists at work. A smile worked its way to his lips, uncontrolled but utterly welcomed.

 _Click! Whirr._

Gracie had a habit of sticking her tongue out as she concentrated on her paints. It was this quirk that Nathan decide to capture in film, yielding a startled shriek from the Painter in question. Her protests were quelled when Nathan offered her the Polaroid to keep.

Agatha watched over the exchange, pleased with the ease of interaction between the two. They had both come from rather strained family lives. She strode to Nathan's position as he re-approached the waterline.

"Well done, Nathan." A double meaning; approval for both the picture with Gracie and his internal conflict moments before.

"Thank you, Doctor." The smile remained on the man's face, creasing the corners of his eyes. He deliberated for a moment, then decided to come clean to his mentor. "I haven't forgiven them, not yet." The smile faded, slowly, as the blond was reluctant to let such a rare sensation go.

Agatha didn't respond to this, not verbally. Only a nod, and a measured smile. An invitation to continue, but not a command to do so. She had an idea of whom he spoke, but needed Nathan to fill in the details himself.

"I'm still angry. Just…what the fuck were they thinking? I was a goddamn kid, and all that _Legacy_ talk they always used, I just…" A beat of silence, and blue eyes lingered over similarly blue waters. "So, this Park. _Prescott Legacy._ I think it's funny. Like, I'm the only one who sees what that damn Legacy made us. Demons, the lot of us."

This time Agatha did speak. "Is that still how you see yourself, as a Demon?"

"Yes. And no. I feel… freer. For now, that's ok." Nathan released a breath he didn't remember holding; released a weight he didn't realize he held.

 _I'm freer than they are, and I'm the one in an asylum, that's rich!_ Power and control were meaningless without purpose, Nathan thought. They were not ends in themselves, and the tortured soul knows he recognized this far too late to save any of them. Except, perhaps, himself. _Power and control over myself. Within myself. So I could create, not destroy. Agatha told me that on my first day. Fuck me, man._

A sudden burst of inspiration overran him, and he turned the Polaroid camera on himself. Fumbling, as the controls of the antique were not conducive to the modernity of the selfie, he managed to frame himself: Cleanly combed blond hair, parted down the middle; blue eyes, dulled by time; thin lips, inexplicably grinning.

 _This is me. No Others. No Legacy. Power over my actions. Control over my mind. Freedom over my destiny. Annoying-ass ankle bracelet GPS notwithstanding._ He allowed himself a chuckle at this.

Agatha, content to leave Nathan to his introspection, had returned to the others to offer praise for their creations.

The Photographer sat in wet grass by the water's edge, pulled his knees up, and laid back to gaze into the sky's dance of fluffy white clouds. He thought back to that October. He thought back to the girl that died and allowed him to live.

"Max, I'm sorry." He spoke aloud, as if she could hear him if the words filled the air instead of only his head. "I never, I didn't want to hurt anyone. I was so lost. So messed up." He watched a butterfly flit above him, just out of reach. "But I've never thanked you, I guess. So, thanks. You freed me, in a way. Yeah." The insect flew away in the wind, and Nathan thought that profound.

 _Such a small creature, unable to affect the wind that carries it, yet never afraid to fly._

The past was immutable, the future uncertain, Nathan thought.

And that was ok, too, because the present was where he lived anyway.

Perhaps, that was enough. It would have to be enough.

* * *

 **Student Parking, Bay City College**

 **Chloe**

"Goddamn, didn't the semester, like, just start? What's with all the homework already?" Chloe's question was rhetorical, really. In her third year of college, the oft-reluctant student knew how these things went. Still, she felt if she didn't complain about it, she was doing herself a disservice. _Old habits die hard, or some shit._

"I know, it's _terrible_ how the professors want you to _read_ and _comprehend_ the material they give you. What has the world come to?" With dramatic flourish, the theatre student threw her hands to the sky. "Why have thou forsaken me, universe?"

Chloe reached out and lightly punched the other girl's upper arm. "Shuddup, Amy. Drama Queen."

Walking behind them, two more voices joined the fray. "Naw, Chloe, maybe Ames has a point. You do have the worst luck of all of us, maybe the universe does hate you."

"Agreed. The universe definitely has it out for you. After all, you did end up hanging out with us all the time."

Briefly, Chloe's mind flashed with images of just how close their comments were to the truth, not that they would ever know. _Not now. It's been such a good week so far._ The pain threatened the surface. But years of practice in her youth with suppressing emotions proved useful more often than not, and this was one of those times. Instead, she readied the verbal missile silos for launch.

"Ted, it's you that has the worst luck here. Exhibit A, you inherited whatever midget gene your father had. Tough break kid." Ted stood on his tip-toes, extending his five-foot-one frame for another inch or two, and puffed out his chest in an effort to intimidate. Amy giggled at the spectacle, but Chloe's artillery were only half fired.

"And you, Mike, should be happy I put up with you! Not many people can handle the magnitude of _gayness_ you exude." Mike feigned hurt at the accusation, but in reality had been 'out' since he was thirteen. "Where did you even get a shirt like that?" It was an honest inquiry. Mostly.

Mike looked down, as if to confirm which shirt he was presently wearing. The entire shirt was striped in faded rainbow color. The front was proudly emblazoned with 'I'm So Gay, I Shit Rainbows.'

"Oh, this old thing?" Mike mocked his friend with an overly exaggerated, stereotypical 'gay-voice.' Another round of giggles rippled through the others. "I bought it down at Homos-R-Us. Much better than Gay Depot, girlfriend."

By this time, the group had arrived at Chloe's still-not-dead, rusty-as-hell truck. _But it's_ my _truck, the one thing I've kept alive._ Technically, the bench seat's capacity was three persons. Historically, this has not stopped the gang from cramming all four of them into the cab. Today was no different.

The truck owner asked her friends, after the rounds of shuffling and fidgeting making themselves comfortable, "Food first or after?" The Thursday ritual for the past few months was to head to the junk yard and light up. Chloe only toked once a week or less, nowadays. She didn't _need_ it anymore, and so she allowed herself to indulge.

The males let out a synchronized "I dunno" and Amy was already buried in her phone, ensconced behind a curtain of flowing black hair. Chloe reached a hand up to her own angled cut blonde hair, with blue highlights. She scratched her scalp, buying the others a short time to rethink their apathy before she took command. Inwardly, she sighed.

 _The burdens of a pirate captain._

A short time later, without food, yet with inexplicable grumbling about the lack of the same, the foursome arrived at American Rust. As they piled out of the vehicle, Ted and Mike were arguing about some video game or another. Chloe was only half listening.

"How can you even say that? There's no evidence that the sacrifice would stop the cataclysm." Ted was animated, talking with his hands as much as his vocal cords.

"Yeah, 'cept when you do, it works. Did you not play the other ending?" Mike was calmer, but still interested. The two gamers often debated the merits of various games. Chloe didn't have the background here to add anything to the discussion. She hadn't even heard of this one. Wordlessly, she led them to their designated smoking spot.

"Ugh, yes. But in that moment, your character doesn't _know_ that."

"Private Snugglebottoms resents the implication that he knows less than he should."

"…You named your character Private Snugglebottoms? How can I even take that serious…"

"We're here, nerds," their leader announced, "and it's my turn to provide, so we actually have some good green today." Light blue eyes shot daggers to Amy, who looks down in mild embarrassment.

"One time! I get bad stuff _one time_ and I never hear the end of it! I can't help that I don't have your connection with Fred, or whatever."

"Frank. And that's a long story that I'm way too sober to tell, so shush." From her pocket, Chloe produced a tin containing the day's entertainment. Within their makeshift shelter – far from the original, which sat untouched and abandoned – the students took their seats and began the ritual. Chloe started, and passed left to Amy. _Damn, this stuff is good. Note to self: Thank Frank for new brand._

The thoughts in the blue-tipped head started on their normal journey to introspection and revelry under the effects of the herb, while Ted and Mike debated frivolously and Amy played some gentle music.

 _Frank. We used to be enemies. Now, we're just two schmucks who lost too much._ The dealer had left Arcadia Bat briefly in October, but returned before anyone could really start to miss him. It had taken over a year for Chloe to pay Frank off, and another to learn about his relationship with Rachel.

 _Rachel. I loved you, wish I coulda said it out loud once. But, it doesn't hurt so much, anymore._ It had taken a month before the grieving to not take up her whole day. Another month before she stopped crying at night, and still another before she could talk to Joyce about everything.

 _Mom. I was so shitty to you for so long. I just hope I can still make you proud._ It took until that summer for Chloe to be whole enough to operate effectively, and at Joyce's insistence Chloe enrolled in summer school to finish her diploma. There was only a semester of credits to make up. She never walked, but the punk has a fancy paper that says she graduated. Her mother had said her father would have been proud, too.

 _Dad. I'm trying, y'know. Held a job, with Mom, for like two years. Solid B's in College. Trying to be… worthy, of the life you gave me._ It took five years from his death, and two more in process, for Chloe to admit what she always knew: that she didn't live up to her potential, and that while she wasted her life, others got dragged down with her. Like Rachel, and Max.

 _Max. You're still so mysterious, I guess. Five years, no calls, then you save me. What do I even do with that?_ No one who knew Max at the time said that she had any reasons to fight with Nathan, and no one would have thought the wall flower that was Max Caulfield would have been so assertive as she was in that bathroom. _She was always so fragile, like a butterfly._

But insects are all too easily crushed under the heels of cruel and misguided children. So too, then, did Max meet her fate in much the same way, and Chloe chilled at the thought. She knew she would have met the same fate, had things changed. But she didn't.

She lived.

 _I'm still alive. Still kicking, bitches._

And it was this thought that enabled her to continue on, since that day. The self-appointed mission to live for the ones she had lost; to not lose herself to the dark. Half-lidded eyes drifted out the empty section in the wall of scrap that acted as a window. On the ledge there, a butterfly sat.

 _Sometimes, I feel like you're still here with me, Max. Which is totally fucked, cuz I don't even know what your voice would sound like._ She chuckled at this, and her friends glanced at her. The blonde paid them no mind.

"Thanks, Max." A whisper, not meant for the ears of the living, but important enough to speak aloud. The winged creature took this as cue to leave, and skittered off to parts unknown.

 _So small, fragile, but free. Fly free, fly far, little bug._

The past was painful, and the present was difficult, she thought.

And that was ok, too, because the future could be made much brighter.

Perhaps, that was enough. It would have to be enough.

* * *

 **Threads of the Void**

 **Max**

Being a ghost had some cool perks, Max would admit.

If she could ever tell anyone.

And the chances of that were fairly slim, she would also admit.

But for now, she floated above the prone, sleeping form of her former favorite teacher. Her former idol; former motivation for pursuing her dreams. Former freeman, current prisoner.

 _Look how far you've fallen, Mark. I might pity you if you weren't just so_ evil.

If Max had lips, they would have curled into a devious smile at the sight: her tormentor locked away in a federal SuperMax prison facility.

 _Ha! SuperMax! How have I never thought this before! That's hilarious!_

After the former brunette calmed her mind, internal laughter subsiding, she focused on her task. She materialized her body beside the bed, and sat down. After years of being dead, she found she had control over the forms she took.

She had flown to the prison from Arcadia as a Wisp, after spending the day as a butterfly. She was never visible, never physical. The Void, as Max had named the eldritch realm she inhabited, didn't really care what she did, it seemed. She just wasn't allowed to affect the world in view.

Dreams, however, formed some sort of loophole in this agreement. And after the initial accidental discovery in Chloe's dreamscape, and much more purposeful testing in various others', the ghost had a decent grasp on her power.

 _Feel for the dream, Max._ There wasn't a visual, per se, but a ghost has more senses than strictly physical. _Ah ha! Really Mark, dreaming about lecturing students? Reliving the glory days, I guess._

The Dream Walker let herself fall into Mark's mind.

The invader found herself occupying a seat in what appeared to be a University classroom. A hundred seats filled rows of progressively raised steps. Along the walls were posters, fragments of previous photoshoots. Oddly, there was no door. A single window sat between large posters depicting prior Dark Room victims. Outside, heavy rain was falling.

"Chiaroscuro, our topic for the day, is all about the interplay of light, and dark. Shadow." From the front of the lecture hall, a confident voice boomed. He was secure, here. In control. _Not for long._

"For fuck's sake, if I have to listen to this lecture _again…"_

"Excuse me, young lady, this is no place for…" A stern voice, but short of anger started. Then recognition flitted across the faux-professor's face. "Max? Oh, it's been awhile hasn't it?" Stern voice turned soft, as if trying to be inviting. Tempting. "But why are you here? Shouldn't you be in our Room?"

"Uh, what?"

For the first time since Max started Dream Walking, she felt a sense of dread.

 _Our Room? Oh dog, how often has he dreamt of_ that _? That's…_ A dry heave came then, followed by three more.

This made Dream Mark noticeably uncomfortable. _He's not used to me being anything but submissive. Prick._

"Max? What is…"

"Shut up. For once in your life, be quiet, creep."

He started toward her, the other students in the class just frozen, faceless mannequins now. "Now, now. You and I have something special, Max. Your innocence, I've taken it so many times, so many ways. You're special to me, Max." Still that smooth, manipulative tone.

The sinking feeling of dread turned curtly into panic as the older man approached. For a moment, Max felt the duct tape on her wrists, pulling the skin. She felt the needle in her neck, and the sickening numbness that spread. She felt the weight of eyes, and lenses, on her very being; a stain on her soul no amount of time can wash away.

Then, the Time Traveler remembered she was also the Dream Walker, and that she held power in her beyond the mind of this single perverted egotist. _I'm Max Fucking Caulfield, Time Warrior, after all._

She held out her hand, and Rewound the Dream.

"Shouldn't you be in our Room?"

"Let's try _my_ Room this time, Mark."

She snapped her fingers with the other hand, and the lecture hall melted away. A candle's wax, once solid, now flowing. Max became a Wisp, while her target began to fall. Around the helpless man, the world reformed; wax formed into a new mold. The grass covered ground solidified first, providing a place for Mark to land, painfully. Trees sprung up in a circle around him, giving the impression he was in a forest clearing. The sun shone brightly. Animals scurried about at the tree line.

"What is this? This doesn't make any sense." Meekly, he lifted his head off the ground.

"It doesn't need to, for my purpose today. Get ready for a lecture, _Mr. Jefferson._ " The venom from her tone would cripple elephants should it have willed itself corporeal form.

"I waited three years to visit you. Everyone else, I went to them, when I could. Kate, Dana, even Victoria. My parents, and Joyce. David, too." The older man stood, now, not quite listening but not interrupting either.

Max considered for a moment, then added, "I visit Nathan regularly, actually. He is doing much better now." She smiled with thin pale lips, knowing she helped, in her own small ways, to effect that change. Mark noted the mention of his former protégé, and stared toward his dream-captor.

"Nathan was a retarded little shit, never strong nor smart enough. If not for _his_ mistakes, I'd be free right now." The calm, collected façade cracked and fell away, illuminating the darkness hidden inside. His voice became sharper, razor fine edges where softness was before.

 _Wowzers, and I thought Chloe was the one who blamed everyone else._ The ghost didn't let the thrown barbs stick in her skin, however. "Blah blah blah, you have issues. My _point_ is, I've made peace with the ones I left behind. Friends and enemies. Except you."

Mark took a step toward his target, then another, tentatively, as if gauging the girl's state of defensiveness. The brunette paid him no mind, and continued her speech.

"I thought maybe…" Her voice fell off, rather abruptly, as she didn't quite know what she expected from the fallen photography star. "…I just wanted to see a change, I guess." Blue eyes shut, and shoulders fell. Tiredness pervaded her being.

Blue irises need not meet the light for Max to know that the twisted man had grown too close for comfort. His mere existence seemed to shed waves of perversion, if only one knew the toxic truths behind the sweet lies of its candy shell.

This, Max knew well. All too well. _Even if Time forgot what happened, I can't._

She snapped her fingers again, and the world again melted to wax. A broken man and a delicate winged insect floated then, in the Void. A space with which the insect was well acquainted, but terrifying to the man.

Max's voice broadcast from those wings, as dreams need not hold to reality too closely. "I suppose the only peace I can share with you is this, Jeffer _shit_. The unending nothingness of the Void.

"So much pain, for so many. For your sick fantasy; your sick ideology. There's no redemption for you. _I_ certainly can't _forgive_ you.

"But there was justice. For your victims. Maybe I'll find peace in that."

And with that, Max faded to a wisp, and seeped through layers of foreign consciousness into the more familiar dimensions of the real world. She glanced once more to the sleeping form below her. He writhed, still asleep, but plagued by his own mind.

 _I'm sorry. I hate you, for what you did, but I'm sorry. You'll wake up with only a headache. I'll never wake at all._

The present belonged to the living, and the future to the dreamers, Max thought.

And that was ok, too, because she had held the past with her for too long.

Perhaps, it had been enough. It would have to be enough.


	8. June 23, 2019

**Sunday, June 23, 2019**

 **West Oregon Rehabilitation Center**

 **Nathan**

"I have to say, I didn't expect _you_ when Doc said I had a visitor. It's… nice to see you, Chloe."

The woman, now blonde with pink streaks, shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The so-called 'meeting room' was actually a nicely furnished corner of one of the communal areas. The two parties sat in opposite recliners, with two coffees set on the table between them.

Nathan was glad to see her. He had never apologized, or expressed regret to Chloe. He never quite had the opportunity to, since he gained the mental discipline to do so. And now, he feared it was too late, and too little, to simply utter an 'I'm sorry' and call it good.

 _Perhaps, though, that's all I can offer._

"I. Uh. Yeah. Sure, nice to see ya." A hand with blue painted nails raked through shoulder length hair as she spoke. It was obvious at a glance she was ill at ease. "You look different."

A sincere smile spread on Nathan's face. "Yeah, I suppose I do. I needed some change a while back. A clean break, from what I was before." Absent mindedly, he reached back to tousle his pony tail. He wore a plain short sleeve tee, in grey, and nondescript blue jeans.

 _The Others were always more concerned with my outer appearance than I was. But that's a long story, and not one she would be interested in._

"I want to focus inward, so I dress rather plainly now. It helps me keep peace, up here." Nathan tapped his temple with his index finger, by way of explanation. Chloe seemed to understand, though she remained on edge.

"I know a little about that kinda thing, too. Took me a while, though." Her blue eyes left the male form across from her and gazed at the pond through the window.

"All worthwhile journeys take time. Finding ourselves can take a lifetime, because it's the most worthy journey of all."

 _I hope your journey was easier than my own, Chloe. I know I didn't help. I was lost too._

"Woah, you turn into a fuckin' monk or some shit?" The wayward gaze snapped back to meet Nathan's own. A look of incredulity was planted on the woman's face. Laughter found its way to the so-called monk's throat.

Composing himself, he offered "I wish. I try to help the other residents. And I do meditate, but I think there's more qualifications to monkhood than just downloading whale songs to my MP3 player. I'm happy here, though." He wasn't sure why he added that last part, but some part of his mind felt it important to share.

"Really? I mean. I don't want to sound judgmental, or whatever. Just, y'know. This is like, uh…"

"A prison?" the resident completed her broken sentence.

"…Yes?"

Another chuckle escaped him, and this time Chloe did relax, a little. "At first, I thought so. But after I started to find myself, I knew it was the opposite." Confusion scrunched the facial features of his guest. "A prison restricts freedom. A punishment. This place, helped release me from my own shackles. A gift. Probably saved my life, in the end."

The rest of the tension seemed to lift from Chloe's frame.

Relief flooded into Nathan as air fills a vacuum.

 _I don't exactly deserve friends, Chloe, but I don't desire to have enemies, either._

He never found redemption, exactly, but peace was an acceptable alternative.

 **Chloe**

"A gift, saved your life." The words were little more than a sigh, not meant for ears to hear. In her more reflective days, she might have described that Monday in October in the same way.

 _Maybe more literal than Nathan means, though. Max didn't die in his place. Or, maybe that's exactly what he's saying?_

"Max was-" and her windpipe closed in a choke. It had been a long time, longer than her short term memory, since she allowed herself to think of that day.

"An everyday hero." The man completed her sentence yet again. This time, the blonde could only nod in agreement. A few hard swallows later, and she felt farther from tears.

Nathan spoke again. "I never really noticed her, in school, I'll admit. I was preoccupied with more destructive things. I know from the court proceedings you two had history. I never -" A deep breath, then. "I never got to say I'm sorry. To you. To anyone, really. So, I'm sorry, Chloe. For everything."

Chloe eyed the Prescott's fallen heir. There was shame in his eyes. He sat up, with open body language. He looked at her, but failed to hold eye contact under the intensity of her analytical stare.

 _Is this even the same goddamn kid? A Prescott, with remorse?_

"Nathan, I will never forgive you, okay?" She tried to withhold all the vitriol she had held in her mind for his memory. She almost succeeded. He simply nodded, and his posture fell. "But, I guess," a long breath was exhaled through her pierced nostrils, "I can't hate you, either."

 _The whole reason I came today. Easier than I expected, really. I just, needed to hear that._

Again, a simple nod was the only response. For a minute or two, the pair sat in silence, casting their gazes to the pond outside. A single doe had stopped to take a drink. It seemed to notice their eyes watching it.

"Do you ever dream about her?" He asked the question without turning to face his visitor, as if he didn't want to acknowledge the oddity of the sudden inquiry.

"…Yeah. Sorta where I got the idea to come here in the first place," she admitted. "It's like my subconscious takes her image sometimes. Wait, do you?" Chloe did turn to face her old classmate, eyebrows pushed together.

"Once in a while, yes. She helps me. Helped guide me here. Subconscious mind, or whatever, she's an angel, Chloe." Nathan's blue eyes met the coastal blue ones opposite him.

 _This is weird as shit._ They both missed the doe prance off and fade into wisps.

"I knew a few angels in my youth, yeah. She was one of 'em, for sure." And that sudden soothing coolness fell on her cheek, the same as she feels sometimes when she wakes alone. A ghost of a touch, a simple comfort. And, impossibly, a happiness. A joy for life yet to be lived.

The feeling of being _worthy_ of living was Max's last gift for her.

 _You'll always be with me after all, Max._

She had always been worthy of love, she just hadn't always looked in the right places.

 **Max**

Max let her non-corporeal hand fall from her lost love's cheek.

 _This is the closest I'll ever get to you, Chlo. And you don't even miss me the same way. That's for another Time._

 _But after everything, I'm ok with that. Because you're_ alive. _I fought – still fight – so hard for you._

And then there was a pull on her essence; the tug of the tide when one sits in the sand on the beach. She felt she could fall, in no direction but certainly forward, and perhaps no longer be tethered here, in the Void, neither here nor there.

She had made peace.

Because the last person she had to make peace with was not Mark Jefferson in his dreams three years ago, but rather with herself.

She never let herself think she was accomplished, never thought she was done, never thought she had given enough to justify her gifts.

Today, she felt a completion:

Her old friends were successful.

Her parents had a new son, and doted on him.

Joyce and David were reconciled and healthily together.

Arcadia Bay was safe.

Jefferson was locked away.

Nathan held inner peace.

And her Chloe was happy, safe, and _living_.

 _Maybe I've done enough good, maybe I can rest. Like Rachel, all those years ago._

A feeling like sleep crept along the edges of Max's mind. Tendrils of a calm blackness gnawed at her vision. A seductive chill swept along her phantom skin in sensations new to her. The Void was ready to release her. But as she readied herself to float along a river of nothingness into the oceans beyond, a distant voice, a lovely song to ethereal ears, whispered.

"I loved her."

Three words lit a fire below deck to power the steamship carrying Max from the coast of oblivion back to the shores of the Void.

She remembered a promise she made a literal lifetime ago.

 _I'm never leaving you._

Because like Max, some things were Timeless.


End file.
